


Clueless (The Johnlock Edition)

by pluperfectsunrise



Category: Clueless (1995), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Beverly Hills, Comedy, F/M, Jane Austen's Emma, John is Sherlock's foster brother, M/M, Manipulative Sherlock, Masturbation, Romance, Sherlock is oblivious about his own emotions, Slow Burn, What else is new?, makeover montage, random Shakespeare quotes, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-09-01 05:02:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8609815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluperfectsunrise/pseuds/pluperfectsunrise
Summary: Handsome, clever, and living with his brother in Beverly Hills, 18-year-old Sherlock Holmes doesn't mind not having any real friends and certainly doesn't feel the need for romantic entanglements. After setting out to find a boyfriend for the new girl in school, though, will he learn the truth of his own heart? And on an unrelated note, will he finally get his annoying ex-foster brother, John Watson, to stop interfering in his plans?





	1. The Brat

**Author's Note:**

> So I had the idea for this fic one night last summer when I couldn't sleep and was casting potential crossovers in my head (as one does). Clueless is one of my favorite movies for life, and as soon as I thought of Sherlock as Cher, it seemed too perfect to resist. You don't have to have seen Clueless to enjoy this, but it is a classic teen romcom of the '90s. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Any kudos or comments are vastly appreciated.
> 
> A/N: I'm using American spelling because it's set in California, though Sherlock and John are still British. And I don't own anything, of course.

Sherlock Holmes was aware of his blessings. In his own estimation, he was handsome, clever, and rich. Not to mention being only eighteen, young enough that the future still stretched before him in uncharted hills and valleys, old enough to buy his own cigarettes. In short, he was reaping the rewards of some of the best possibilities of life.

So why was it so difficult to make one fucking video blog?

He’d already tried a variety of greetings to begin the recording, including a desperate “Ssssup?” that he’d deleted immediately in mortification. Though really, considering that he was being forced to do this for the senior class’s digital yearbook, what did it matter? He tugged at a handful of curls and tapped his thumb against his phone’s record icon one more time.

“Good morning,” he began, then grimaced. “Or rather, hello, since it is not, in fact, a good morning. I don’t know why I let myself get forced into this.”

He centered the image on his face, examining his light eyes, frowning mouth, and wrinkled nose. “Introduce yourself,” Mr. Carmichael had said enthusiastically. “Talk a little bit about who you are! Express yourself! This counts for 25% of your final grade.”

He cleared his throat. “To start with,” he tried again, “my name is Sherlock Holmes.” He made a face. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes, to be exact. I live with my brother Mycroft, who is also my archnemesis. You know how that goes. We live in Beverly Hills, California, because Mycroft got tired of being the British government and decided to become the American government instead. He’s off in Washington most of the time, which works out peaches for me.”

He switched the camera to a view of his surroundings. “This is my bedroom, obviously. That’s my sock index. This is my skull, an old friend—well, when I say friend…” He hummed to himself. “This is my collection of tobacco ash. I’ve determined that there are 253 types. Later, maybe I’ll take you to see the laboratory I’ve built in the garage. I’ve got a dead raccoon in there right now.”

Perhaps he ought to wink. People seemed to like it when he winked.

Now that he’d got into the swing of it, this wasn’t going nearly as badly as he’d feared. After grabbing his book bag and glancing at himself in the closet mirror to make sure that his jeans hugged his arse, Sherlock pushed out the bedroom door and clattered down the stairs. “Unfortunately, my presence is expected this morning at that monument to mediocrity called a high school.” Hmmm, let Mr. Carmichael chew on that. He was only _expressing himself_ , after all. At the bottom of the staircase, he swept the phone around for a panoramic view of the foyer's tiled floor and arched ceiling. “This is our house. Large, isn’t it? Don't worry--the tastelessness is Mycroft’s fault, not mine.” 

Still recording, Sherlock rounded the corner to the kitchen, his eyes widening. “And speaking of the devil...” Apparently, Mycroft was home. He angled the camera at his brother, taking in his bespoke suit, slicked-back hair, and the slice of pie he was gripping in one hand. Lips widening in his first real grin of the day, Sherlock zoomed in. “Dessert for breakfast, Myc?” he taunted. “Did the meeting with the Ugandan ambassador’s wife go that poorly?”

Mycroft's gaze swept over the smartphone and dismissed it. “Good morning, Sherlock,” he answered levelly. “John is coming over for dinner tonight.”

“What?!? Mycroft! Why?” Ending the recording abruptly, Sherlock could hear the whinging tone in his own voice, but he Didn’t Care. With capital letters.

“Because Mummy and Dad are his guardians, Sherlock, which makes him family.” Mycroft’s tone was calm, polite, and utterly infuriating. He took a bite of pie.

Sherlock threw his hands in the air and whirled, pacing the length of the kitchen and back. “They’re not even here, and the adoption was years ago!”

“You don’t dis-adopt a child, Sherlock, even after he’s reached the age of legal majority.”

“The mage of megal mamority,” Sherlock repeated in a mocking sing-song, glaring at his brother.

Since Mycroft had long ago mastered the avoidance of unnecessary movements, he only rolled his eyes. “Regardless of your opinions on the matter, I invited John for dinner--and you’ll be as civil to him as your nature allows.”

Before Sherlock could respond, they were interrupted by the squeal of brakes outside. A half-second later, he heard a heavy honk and a voice yelling, “Oi! Freak!”

"That's Sally," he explained. He glanced down at his phone. He'd been intending to record her pulling up. 

“Ah, the inestimable Miss Donovan.” Mycroft carefully replaced the second half of his pie slice in the open pie tin. “Perhaps you'd best get going, then. Do try not to burn down the school today, brother mine.”

Looking his brother up and down, Sherlock answered, “Only if you don't break the treadmill.” He knew it was snotty, but no one had ever accused a Holmes of being able to resist a parting shot. He shouldered his book bag and kicked the front door open, yanking his sunglasses from his pocket as he went. 

***

Just like every morning before school, Sally Donovan was waiting impatiently for him in her jeep in the circular drive. When Sherlock lifted himself in without bothering to open the passenger door, she jabbed a menacing finger at him and said, “Don’t you dare get footprints on my seats, Holmes.”

Sally's attitude had made her both feared and respected by the student body of Beverly Hills High. Carpooling every morning didn't exactly make her and Sherlock friends, but they did have a kind of truce. They’d initially struck up an acquaintance because they shared an endemic mistrust of others and a general disgust for the asinine curriculum of the American public school system. They also shared an interest in criminology—although Sally would probably thrive in an authoritarian and bureaucratic organization like the police force, while Sherlock would…not.

They’d remained allies because Sherlock could at least trust Sally to tell him what she really thought. While he’d made a concerted study of physiological tells, social cues were often still anathema to him. He didn’t need to be loved or coddled—he needed a companion who was easy to read and who wouldn't mince words when he fucked up.

Now, he smirked at her as she revved them onto the street. “Stuff it, Donovan,” he said, slouching against the seat. “Without me, who would appreciate your daring fashion sense?” She was currently wearing an outfit that he was pretty sure he’d last seen in The Lorax.

Sally cast a fish-eye toward his own ensemble, particularly the straining buttons of his silk shirt. “At least I’m leaving something to the imagination,” she sniped.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and flicked his sunglasses down.

***

Being one of the first to his seat in homeroom, Sherlock leaned back and watched his classmates trickle in: Janine Hawkins, with her sly smile—dull. Jim Moriarty, who sat directly behind Sherlock and spent an inordinate amount of time giggling to himself—dull. Soo Lin Yao, who was studious and serious and dull, Sarah Sawyer, who was nice and responsible and dull. Dull dull dull. The last to make it to class, rushing in just as the bell rang, was Greg Lestrade, who had apparently decided to dye his hair silver over the weekend. Ah, he was playing the bass guitar in a new band and thought it would make him look more grunge. Sherlock’s nostrils flared as he caught a whiff of the other boy—unwashed socks, egg mcmuffin, traces of pot. Dull.

“All right, dears,” trilled a familiar, all-too-chipper voice. “I know you won’t have forgotten that I’m handing out last semester’s report cards today.”

As a groan rumbled through the ranks of students, Sherlock looked up to see his elderly, energetic homeroom teacher, Mrs. Hudson, smiling at them all with a gleam in her eye. His own eyes narrowed automatically. He’d long ago realized that the woman was much cannier than her ditzy grandmotherly persona implied, and he didn’t trust that gleam.

“Is everybody here? Then let’s get this over with, dears. And don’t leave trash on the floor, Gregory. I’m your teacher, not your housekeeper.”

Mumbling an apology, Lestrade picked up an empty Doritos bag that he’d dropped and shoved it into his pocket. Then he tore open the sealed white envelope that Mrs. Hudson had handed him. Then he tried to jump out the window. 

“And if we could save the suicide attempts for next period?” Mrs. Hudson gasped as she hauled Lestrade back inside by the scruff of his jacket.

When she handed Sherlock his own white envelope, she said, “Here you go, Sherlock dear.” Sherlock tore open the edge neatly without bothering to answer, his lips pressed into a thin line. Grades were not important—they were hardly a reflection of actual intelligence, just of the ability to plunk predetermined answers into systemically narrow-minded fields—

He gasped. A dark cloud settled over first period.

He’d gotten a 2.6 GPA?

This was a problem. No, this was an insult. This would need to be rectified, on his honor as a gentleman.

The rest of the day passed in a blur.

***

By the time he got back home that evening, he’d fleshed out a plan and was looking forward to implementing it, since it would involve honing his skills of manipulation on the teaching staff.

Sherlock’s scheming was put on hold, however, when he heard a whiny acoustic guitar song blaring from the radio in the kitchen. Oh god, the maudlin hipster music of the university station. Waah waah waah. Toeing off his shoes and socks and dumping his book bag on the hall floor, Sherlock rounded the corner into the kitchen and narrowed his eyes at the invader in his home.

Sherlock had been nine when he’d first met John Watson. At that point, John had been a tow-headed twelve-year-old with a mother who’d just died in a car crash and a father who’d been deemed unfit by the state. Since Dad had been best friends with John’s mum in his childhood, he’d prevailed upon Mummy for them to become the legal guardians of the boy and his belligerent sister—who, thankfully, never visited Beverly Hills—rather than let them go to foster homes.

The enforced siblinghood had only been for the summers, really, since John had already been committed to spending his juvenile years in military school and Sherlock soon left for Eton. Sherlock did have vivid memories of playing pirates with the older boy, though—with Sherlock as the devious pirate king, of course, while John played the noble ship’s captain who stood for everything Right and Good. God, dull.

When Sherlock had crossed the pond to live with Mycroft in California two years ago, he’d finally thought he’d be rid of John Watson—but no such luck. Of all places, John had decided to do his pre-med training at UCLA. And now here he was, sticking his nose deep into Sherlock’s refrigerator, his posture stiff from a recent injury in some sort of contact sport, his short blond hair rumpled from running his hands through it while studying, his mouth twitching as he sniffed a tub of yogurt.

Loath as he was to see John Watson, Sherlock did have to admit that it was satisfying to loom over him. John was…stocky. Compact. Hobbit-like. Sherlock smirked, slinking behind him to edge his hips against the kitchen island. “Tell me, John,” he rumbled, crossing one ankle over the other, “is the jumper a nod to the crispy LA weather, or are you just trying to keep warm in front of the fridge?”

John stiffened, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “Hey, Sherlock,” he called over his shoulder. Snapping the lid back onto the yogurt, he abandoned his quest in favor of leaning against the fridge door with crossed arms. “Nice to see you, as always. How’s high school?”

Sherlock scowled. “Shut up.”

John’s eyebrows rose. “That bad, huh?” He reached forward and poked Sherlock’s side. “You look like a twig. Been forgetting to eat again?”

Urgh! This. This was why Mycroft should ban John from the house—all of the insufferable do-gooder caretaking. “God, John, you’re not my mother. Why don’t you find some other family to insult with your presence? You could transfer to school on the east coast.” Sherlock lifted his nose in the air. “I hear the girls at NYU aren’t at all particular.”

John snorted. “But then I would never get to see your charming face again, you git.” Pushing off from the refrigerator, he grabbed a bag of crisps from the counter and led the way through the archway to the living room, plopping down on the couch. “Plus I’m really enjoying my GE electives here, so…” He shoved a handful of crisps in his mouth and shrugged.

Sherlock flopped down next to him. “Please tell me you’re not taking something in the humanities.”

John finished chewing and smiled. Sherlock scanned him up and down. “Creative writing,” they both said at the same time.

“I think I’m really getting the hang of dramatic prose,” John bragged.

Sherlock wriggled so that he was lying on his back, one leg stretching out to jab John’s thigh. “Oh god,” he groaned, covering his face with one hand. “I know you wanted to explore your liberal sentimentalities after getting out of military school, but there’s no need to become an artist, John.”

John was suspiciously silent. Sherlock peeked between his fingers to see the other man grinning at him.

When he saw that he had Sherlock's attention, John said, “You’re amazing, you know that?”

“What?” No, argh, don’t blush! Sherlock buried his face in the couch, hoping John wouldn’t see the color rising in his cheeks.

Nope, he definitely saw it, if the continuing laughter in his voice was any indication. “That thing you do, where you deduce people. It’s brilliant.”

Fuck, John knew exactly what he was doing. Sherlock could take insults like a pro, but compliments always caught him unawares. “Stop it,” he ordered, gritting his teeth in embarrassment. Schooling his features, he held out an imperious hand. “And help me up, before we’re late for dinner and Mycroft inhales it all.”

His grip firm and warm, John obeyed.

***

“Joining the RAMC, John? Do you want to have a miserable, frustrating life?”

Looking between Mycroft’s haughty face and John’s scowling one, Sherlock snickered into his peas. “Oh, John will have that no matter what he does.”

Unfortunately, that had the effect of switching Mycroft’s attention to him. “At least he’s chosen a career,” he said disapprovingly, his fork clanging as he jabbed it into his plate.

Sherlock scowled. “I’ve chosen a career!”

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose. “‘Consulting detective’ is not a career.” The elder Holmes brother would never do anything as plebeian as make air quotes, but Sherlock could hear them in his voice nonetheless.

Sherlock put his fork down and crossed his arms over his chest. “I invented it,” he spat out, glaring at his brother with fury. "So it obviously _is_."

Mycroft, however, seemed utterly unfazed by Sherlock’s wrath. “And then there’s the matter of your report card,” he drawled, lifting a single eyebrow. “Should I tell you how very disappointed I am, brother mine?”

Of course the interfering bastard would already know about Sherlock’s disastrous grades. “Why should you be disappointed?” Sherlock demanded, cooling his voice in return. Mycroft had deliberately piqued him, but now it was time to stand on his dignity. “It’s not ready yet.”

Next to him, John let out a surprised laugh. “What are you planning to do, talk your way into a higher GPA?”

Sherlock sniffed, finally glancing away from his twat of a brother. “Obviously.”

John was still staring at him, his blue eyes assessing. “What makes you think you can get teachers to change your grades?” he challenged.

Sherlock shook his head. “What must it be like in your tiny brain?” he mocked, a crocodile grin spreading slowly across his face. “I’m brilliant, John. You said so yourself just half an hour ago.”

The game, it seemed, was on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first line of this chapter is plagiarized (ahem, lovingly inspired by) from the first line of Jane Austen's Emma, which Clueless is a modern retelling of: "Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence..."


	2. What Happened Next

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't even begin to express my joy in the response this has gotten. You're all fantastic. And if you wrote me a note and I didn't respond, you should know that I read it and it warmed the cockles of my heart.

To start with, Sherlock convinced his PE teacher that he’d been taking private lessons in an obscure martial arts form called baritsu all semester, so she gave him credit for independent study. He bumped himself up two letter grades in World Histories by promising to join the debate club, comfortable that he’d be kicked out once his teammates got to know his true personality. And he told his recently divorced and extremely bitter maths teacher that he’d been strung along all fall by an evil older man he’d met online—so she raised his C to a B.

Mrs. Hudson, however, was proving intractable. Whenever he mentioned his many contributions to her class, she would just say, “You should’ve turned in more homework, dear. I’m not going to give you an A just because of how muddled it is in that silly big head of yours.”

The injustice of this assessment was driving him absolutely spare. Sherlock's thoughts might seem chaotic to an outsider, but he’d built a whole bloody Mind Palace to organize them, hadn’t he?

Feeling a great sulk rising, Sherlock went home and spent an evening yelling at his skull, torturing his violin, and deliberately not completing Mrs. Hudson’s latest essay on One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. He’d already read its Wikipedia entry and stored the important bits in his Mind Palace’s temporarily relevant cultural rubbish cupboard, which he’d clean out at the end of the year. If Sherlock did turn in an essay, Hudders would only give it back with something along the lines of “This is well-structured, but you missed the whole point of the prompt, dear” written in red ink on the front. At least, that was what had happened last semester during the Shakespeare unit.

“What is her problem?” he demanded aloud, pacing back and forth while holding his skull in one hand. He hadn’t deleted Hamlet—at least, not all the good death scenes—but he couldn’t be arsed to care if he looked like a wannabe Prince of Denmark. Like poor Yorick, Sherlock's pet skull was an excellent audience for soliloquies.

Sherlock paused in his pacing, staring into the middle distance. “I mean,” he repeated more slowly, “she hasn’t been sleeping well—bags under her eyes, bitten fingernails, increased intake of whatever tea swill they serve in the teacher’s lounge, not to mention all that medical marijuana for her hip—so what _is_ her problem? It has to be personal, not professional, or I’d have heard of it—and she doesn’t have a family, not coming to school with runs in her stockings and lipstick on her teeth every day…”

Putting the skull back on his dresser carefully, Sherlock flopped down onto his bed and yanked his computer onto his lap. He needed more data.

He started Googling.

Two hours later, he’d saved a collection of grainy YouTube images that he would definitely expunge from his memory the second this case closed. When he bothered to think about it, Sherlock considered himself to be open-minded and progressive—at least, he despised those who used xenophobia to consolidate their own power—but he hadn’t been prepared to see his schoolmarmish homeroom teacher as an _exotic dancer_. 

For god’s sake, there had been glitter. There had been g-strings. There had been _ostrich feathers_.

This was starting to get interesting.

***

Four days later, Sherlock stood across the street from a sordid apartment building in Long Beach, watching as a man was escorted in handcuffs into one of a trio of police cars, their blue and red lights flashing against the swaying palm fronds above. 

Eduardo Hudson, former cartel junto and owner of the nauseatingly named Club Cockatoo in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, was about to take a short trip back to prison. And this time, unlike the last, maybe the charges would stick. Even the American police couldn't be so imbecilic as to misinterpret the facts.

Sherlock couldn’t stop the gleeful grin from spreading across his face. He exhaled, hard. This.

It hadn’t been a challenging case—not once he’d realized that Mr. Hudson was stalking his ex-wife and triangulated all the public Wi-Fi networks that he’d emailed her from to pinpoint his likely location. Sherlock hadn’t even had to utilize his lock-picking skills, in fact, since he’d been able to see the evidence of renewed drug trafficking activities through Hudson’s front window and text images of it to his parole agent right away.

But.

This was what he’d been born to do, Mycroft’s disbelief in his chosen career be damned.

Snapping a quick photo with his phone just before the man’s head was shoved unceremoniously into the police car, Sherlock sent a single text. Then he stepped deeper into his shadowed alcove, lit a cigarette, and took that first sweet drag, his eyes hooding themselves in pleasure.

The reply was quick in coming.

As the last of the LAPD drove away, Sherlock tilted his head back and exhaled a breath of smoke up at the stars.

***

In the cozy cottage in Brentwood that Martha Hudson had bought back when she’d first fled to the west coast in the ‘90s, she stared at the image on her phone and the words underneath.

“Use every man after his desert, and who should 'scape whipping? –SH”

Oh, that boy. She pressed a hand to her mouth. That ridiculous boy.

She didn’t have to ponder long to figure out what she wanted to say in return. Fingers trembling, she typed, “I can no other answer make but thanks, and thanks; and ever thanks.”

***

“Sherlock, get in here!”

It was rare that Mycroft raised his voice. “What is this?” he demanded once Sherlock had sauntered past the threshold into his office, holding up a freshly opened letter.

“My grades?” Sherlock asked innocently, sweeping his gaze over the glaringly posh mahogany walls and furnishings. It had been a while since he’d ventured into his brother’s sanctum sanctorum.

Mycroft frowned, looking at the revised report card again. “Did you turn in missing work?”

“Not at all.”

“Take extra credit assignments?”

Sherlock switched to examining his nails. The cuticles were perfect, of course. “Nope.” He popped the P.

Mycroft was flat-out staring now, his expression of surprise as rare as snowfall in Hollywood. “Do you mean to tell me that you raised yourself to an A- average just by manipulating your teachers?”

Grinning, Sherlock bounced once on the balls of his feet. It _had_ been a fairly spectacular feat, and Mrs. Hudson’s improvement in cheer had been appreciated by the whole school, if the ovation that he’d gotten in the quad at lunch a week ago was anything to go by. “Yep. You proud?”

“I wouldn’t be more so if they were based on actual merit,” Mycroft answered dryly. "Perhaps you'll learn subtlety yet." A corner of his mouth twitched up. It wasn’t exactly a smile, but that was better, with Mycroft: he never smiled out of amusement, only condescension or regret.

Before the moment could grow sentimental, however, he picked up another note from his desk, this one written on flowery stationary that had a cat hair stuck to the ink. “But I do have some bad news, brother mine,” he added, removing the hair fastidiously. “Apparently, Mrs. Turner spotted you lifting the remains of a raccoon from the side of the road last week.”

Sherlock had suspected as much from the stationary. He rolled his eyes. Mrs. Turner was notorious as the neighborhood scandalmonger. “I’m not the one who killed it, if that’s what you’re after.”

Mycroft folded the letter fussily. “So you merely decided to requisition the corpse?”

“Yes, for experiments. You know that already, Mycroft." Sherlock lifted his chin. "Stop being dull and get to your point.”

“My point?” Mycroft allowed himself a shudder. “My point, I suppose, is that I don’t want you driving alone anymore. You’re not licensed in California yet, and I won’t have you breaking the laws of both the state and common decency. Think of how your behavior would upset Mummy, who has entrusted me with your safety.”

Sherlock gaped at his brother. “Me? I, upset her? You’re the one who—”

“Remember my stipulations for allowing you to live under my roof, Sherlock.” 

When Sherlock had moved to America two years ago, he’d explicitly promised Mycroft that he would bow to his older brother’s judgment in matters concerning his behavior, associates, and education, as long as Mycroft didn’t abuse the privilege. At the time, it had seemed like an obnoxious but necessary concession. Living under Mycroft’s thumb was still better than being in rehab, after all.

Mycroft sniffed and turned back to the paperwork on his desk, dismissal clear in the set of his shoulders. “Take a licensed driver with you to the mall today, Sherlock. It shouldn’t be so difficult to scrounge one up, considering your ever-widening social sphere.” Mycroft had never understood Sherlock’s drive to be respected by his peers after relocating.

Shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, Sherlock stormed out. Trust Mycroft to stick his fat nose in Sherlock's mobility. What was the bastard playing at? He’d had plans for the day—which didn’t involve the mall, thank you very much. He wasn’t some airhead who could only think about whether a new pair of trousers would make his legs look hot. Although whether his legs looked hot was occasionally a valid concern.

But no, he’d been planning to drive around to update his mental map of Santa Monica. He prided himself on having more accurate information that Google streetview, and his knowledge of the metropolitan sprawl had proven invaluable when he was locating Mr. Hudson. He'd also planned to collect some soil samples while he was out for later analysis in his lab.

Skidding to a stop in the foyer, Sherlock caught a glimpse of tousled brown-blond hair in one of the lounge chairs by the pool outside. He smirked.

A licensed driver with nothing to do on a Saturday? Where, oh where could he _possibly_ find one of those?

***

“Hey genius, in this country, they drive on right side of the road.”

“That’s hardly my fault, is it? Relax, John. You’re perfectly safe. I have excellent reflexes.”

“You almost hit a cat. Right now. That was a cat.”

“Pity. I could have used the corpse for experiments. The raccoon’s starting to fester.”

John snickered, then forced himself to stop, then snickered again. Ah, John Watson—always fighting against being interesting. Case in point: when Sherlock had discovered him in a lounge chair by the pool, John had been diligently highlighting his latest medical text, chewing on his lower lip in concentration. And when Sherlock had demanded that John accompany him to update Sherlock's mental map of the city and collect dirt, John had merely asked, “What are the chances you’ll stop pouting if I refuse?”

Sherlock was absolutely not pouting, but still… “Slim to none,” he’d answered, shoving John’s jacket at him and then guiding him toward the car with a hand on his lower back.

Swinging onto a side street in the nondescript sedan that Mycroft had bought for him when he'd gotten his driver's permit, Sherlock shook the curls out of his eyes. He was supposed to be registering changes to West LA north of Olympic, not musing on the inevitability of John Watson. Apparently, though, his mouth hadn’t caught up with his intentions. “Why is it that you want to join the military, John?” he heard himself asking. “Is it because you’re an adrenaline junkie?”

At the silence from the passenger seat, Sherlock glanced over to see John scowling, the sunlight glinting off of the light stubble on his jaw. “Some people actually feel the need to help the world, Sherlock. You should try it sometime,” he finally answered.

Sherlock frowned. “I help the world,” he protested. "Just the other day, I ensured that an elderly teacher found relief from an abusive ex-spouse.”

John, damn him, failed to look particularly impressed. “Yeah, but I bet that that served your purposes as much as hers.”

Sherlock squinted into the sunlight. John was right, but… “Why would my motivations have any bearing on the results?” he argued. He’d been on the debate team for a week, after all. He could spot a flaw in logic from a kilometer away.

At that, he heard the other man take a breath. “Sherlock, we’ve known each other for a long time, right?” John asked in a surprisingly gentle tone.

After screeching to a halt for a nanny herding a passel of children across the street, Sherlock turned to look at his companion. “I don’t deny it.”

John raised his eyebrows, his eyes steady on Sherlock’s. “And would you say we know each other well?”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and glanced down at the gearshift. “If I must.”

When he looked back up, John was smiling faintly at him. “Well, I would say that I’m somewhat of an expert in Sherlock Holmes—and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do a single thing where your motive wasn’t intrinsically self-serving. You don’t—I don’t know—see a problem in that?”

Sherlock shifted in his seat and pushed the accelerator pedal down, since the toddlers had all safely toddled to the other side of the street. “You’ve always wanted to believe in heroes, John, but heroes aren’t real—and if they were, I certainly wouldn’t be one of them.”

Next to him, John gave a bark of laughter. “Right. Right. My mistake.”

Oh, John was disappointed. That was awfully hypocritical of him, being disappointed with Sherlock’s personality after claiming to know him so well. What did John want from him, a dedicated campaign of community service? Sherlock was a detective, not some type of altruistic do-gooder. He solved puzzles. He wasn’t a hero. 

Sherlock frowned, his thoughts starting to loop. Did John want him to be a hero? Did Sherlock want John to want him to be a hero? Why would he do that? Did John want Sherlock to want John to want him to be a—

“Sherlock, that’s a stop sign! That was a stop sign.”

Jarred from his train of thought, Sherlock glanced in the rearview mirror at the receding intersection. None of what John was arguing mattered, anyway—John Watson would always have a stick up his arse about doing the right thing, helping other people, yadda yadda yadda.

“I totally paused, John,” he said airily, leaning back and accelerating again.

***

Despite Sherlock’s best efforts to ignore them, however, John’s words echoed in his head all weekend.

“Donovan, would you call me selfish?” he wondered at lunch on Monday, pushing around his untouched portion of the food matter they served at the cafeteria.

Across from him, Sally looked up from where she’d been fiddling with her phone. Her eyes narrowed. “Sometimes I think you’re a psychopath,” she said matter-of-factly. “Sometimes I think I’m going to find a dead body, and you’ll be the one to have put it there.”

Sherlock’s forehead wrinkled. That wasn’t exactly news to him, but—“Janine’s?”

Sally snorted and went back to texting.

Well, that hadn’t been very helpful.

Sherlock was still brooding about it when his ridiculous sixth period PE class rolled around—if wearing polyester shorts and waiting to hit tennis balls that flew from a machine at 80 mph could be called physical education by any stretch of the term.

At least this class was moderately interesting, because in addition to all the usual doctors’ notes excusing the students from participation due to cosmetic surgery, there was a transfer student—a mousy young woman whose dress sense ran toward oversized and brown. At a cursory glance, Sherlock could see that she was from a middle-class family in Middle America, that she had two cats and a sibling whose lunch she’d packed that morning—salami sandwich, eww—and that she was hardworking and desperate to be liked, even though she was deeply uncomfortable in most social situations.

This school would eat her alive.

Suddenly, Sherlock got an idea. Selfish, was he? “Call her over here,” he muttered to Sally.

Sally turned wide eyes on him. “What?”

Sherlock lowered his voice. “Look at her, Donovan. That girl is totally clueless. We’re going to adopt her.”

Sally’s eyes widened further. “She’s toe-up, freak. Our stock would plummet!” she hissed.

Sherlock huffed through his nose. He didn't think he could do this without Sally's help. “C’mon, Donovan,” he cajoled. “Don’t you want to use your popularity for good?”

Sally dropped her chin. “No,” she answered under her breath, but then she shook her head and exhaled, making a jerky _come hither_ motion to the girl with her arm. “But you owe me,” she added out of the side of her mouth.

“Don’t I always?” Sherlock answered in kind. Having Donovan at his side as a social buffer was a luxury that he tried to never take for granted.

When the mousy girl approached them hesitantly, Sherlock put on a smile that was utterly fake—but she wouldn’t know that. “Hi there,” he said heartily. “Lovely to meet you. I’m Sherlock, this is Donovan.”

“Sally,” the latter corrected, offering the girl a firm handshake and a smile that was significantly more sincere than Sherlock’s, despite her initial reluctance.

The new girl shook Sally’s hand steadily, even if she was still staring between the two of them with a look that was part mistrust, part burgeoning hope. “Y-yes, n-nice to meet you,” she stammered. “My name is Molly. Molly Hooper.” To Sherlock’s relief, she then straightened her spine and added, “Thanks so much for calling me over, giving me a chance. Being new in school makes me a little, um, nervous.”

Hm, that seemed like an understatement. Sharing a look with Donovan over Molly’s head, Sherlock waited for Sally to nod slightly, then stepped closer and widened his smile. “Would you like to get coffee with us after school, Molly?” he asked in what he liked to call Friendly Voice #3. He had eleven of them. He'd practiced them in front of the mirror.

The new girl blinked up at him. “Um, okay, that would be—”

“Great,” Sherlock finished for her as the bell rang in the main building. Spinning on one heel, he led the way out of the tennis courts to the locker rooms, smirking to himself. Suck it, John Watson—who was selfish now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line that Sherlock texts to Mrs. Hudson is from Hamlet. The line that Mrs. Hudson sends back to Sherlock is from Twelfth Night.


	3. The Caring Lark: Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all! Sorry this one took me so long to post. I had an insane December, and Chapter 3 grew as I was writing it to three times its original size, like the Grinch's heart. This is the first half. So much plot!! I'm not totally happy with it, but it's time to send it out there into the world.
> 
> Contains no spoilers for The Six Thatchers, but HOLY SHIT.
> 
> Also, though I had a great time writing the fashion bits in this, keep in mind that I'm the type of person who would wear jeans and a comfy sweatshirt every day if I could get away with it ;-)

They ended up sitting outside the Coffee Bean stand at the Westside Pavilion mall, which was relatively empty on a Monday afternoon. Molly ordered something with caramel and whipped cream that could barely be considered a liquid, Sally got a French vanilla latte, and Sherlock stuck with a medium roast, two sugars. He didn’t intend to addle his senses with actual caloric intake.

Despite his indignation at Mycroft implying that he spent all his free time at the mall, Sherlock did have to admit that he loved it. Or perhaps “love” was too vague and juvenile a word to describe the nature of his regard. In truth, he found a type of sanctuary here in this den of high capitalism. The mall was…simpler than other places. The people inside it were simpler. When shoppers rushed or meandered between the stores, their usual convoluted personalities were concentrated by the great enterprise of Buying Things. It was fascinating, really, the way the tide of mallgoers wore their hearts on their sleeves, putting their professions, secrets, and worries just as on display as those booties at the Baby Gap. It was like having a cross-section of human nature under his microscope.

And Molly Hooper, too, was absurdly easy to read in this setting. Aside from the usual clues, he could observe what caught her attention, where her gaze lingered. The pieces of her story were weaving themselves together rapidly in his mind: deceased mother, overworked father with irregular hours, younger brother needing lots of looking after, relatively high intelligence offset by general timidity, complete lack of parental or peer assistance in terms of self-presentation…

The girl was just crying out for guidance, and Sherlock would provide it. She had potential, and he would help her realize it. He would mold her into someone who would attract admiration rather than scorn. This was an excellent challenge, actually. Perhaps he ought to thank John Watson for directing his attention toward it.

Hah. Right after the devil opened up a waterslide park in hell.

“So, how do you like California?” Sally was asking the other girl politely. She’d seemed to warm up to Molly a bit during the drive over.

“Oh, it’s really nice,” Molly babbled in response after taking a sip through her straw. “I mean, sunny, yeah? I can’t believe it’s still February. Back home in Wisconsin, everyone would be in their winter gear. And there'd be a few feet of snow over all the pastures—not that I grew up on a farm, I mean, there were lots of farms around, but we lived in Eau Claire, which is pretty big, generally—but it’s nothing like LA.”

Finally pausing for breath, she shot a look between Sally, who was wearing tall white go-go boots, an orange dress with flared shoulder pads, and a white top hat with a trim of orange flowers, to Sherlock, who was in his usual straining silk button-down and bespoke trousers. Smiling sheepishly, Molly wiped a dollop of foam from her upper lip and looked down at her own rumpled clothes. “I mean, you're all so sophisticated, and I’m just…me.”

Sherlock couldn’t have been given a more perfect opening if he’d scripted it. “Molly, I have a proposal for you,” he interjected, leaning forward and using Friendly Voice #7 to project sincerity. “How would you like a makeover?"

Setting down her drink, the girl blinked at him, a little wrinkle appearing between her eyebrows. “You mean you want to change the way I look?”

“I want to help you live up to your potential,” Sherlock corrected. He flicked his eyes over her again, from her stained brown shoes to the frizzy bits sticking out from her ponytail. “You’ve never had much leisure time, what with living in a single-parent household and being the primary caregiver for your younger sibling. But things are different now, aren’t they? You have help at home, here in LA. You’ve moved in with extended family, and your household income is much higher. I simply want to make sure that you don’t waste this unprecedented opportunity to explore and reinvent yourself.”

“He does that,” Sally interjected while Molly was still gaping. She’d gotten a text and was responding to it with flying fingers, but she still looked up to shoot Sherlock a quelling expression. “He figures out things by looking at people, like we're all just some kind of puzzle. It’s how he gets off.” 

“It’s a scientific process, not a sexual kink,” Sherlock sniffed in response. “I simply observe details about my surroundings and come to logical conclusions.” He switched his gaze back to Molly. He could explain how he'd arrived at his deductions to her, but he doubted it would significantly alter her reaction. “Was I right?”

“Um...” Blinking rapidly again, Molly studied him. Sherlock tried to seem trustworthy. 

Taking a breath, she finally seemed to come to a decision. “Well, mostly,” she agreed with a laugh. “I mean, Dad is an RN, and we moved because he’d been offered a position at Cedar Sinai, the hospital, you know? And Grams lives here—my grandmother—so she can help watch my little brother Douggy in the evenings. So I suppose that if I was going to, to start over, like you said, it would be now.”

“Excellent.” Sherlock swigged the rest of his coffee and tossed it over two tables and a disgruntled pair of Japanese tourists into the nearest trash can. “We can begin this evening.” Sally would go along with it: she was glaring at him right now for not consulting her on the timing, but he had it on good authority (his own) that she found the prospect of a makeover irresistible. Makeovers gave her a feeling of control in a world full of chaos.

Molly, meanwhile, was goggling at him again. This was getting repetitive. “But—” she started to protest.

Since he didn’t want to waste any more time faffing about when he could be getting to work, Sherlock resorted to drastic measures. “Please?” he asked sweetly.

“Well…” Molly exhaled and bit her lower lip, then began to beam at him, the expression cresting over her face like the line of light crossing the earth at dawn. “Okay. Sure.” She let out a small squeak of joy and clutched her hands together, glancing between them. “You guys are so nice!”

Sherlock and Sally looked at each other with matching expressions of consternation.

“Right,” Sally said with a stiff smile.

“Uh-huh,” Sherlock agreed.

***

“Today’s fashion is all about androgyny.”

“But we can’t have her looking too boho. She’s not just back from Lollapalooza!” Sherlock paced up and down the length of Sally’s living room and yanked at his curls again, not caring that they were starting to look like a jackdaw’s nest.

Sally fisted her hands on her hips. “Fashion is an important mode of self-expression, and Molly’s a tomboy. We have to work with that, not against it!”

“I like the color green a lot,” Molly put in, fiddling with one of the empty Coke cans that they’d starting wrapping strands of her hair around once they’d run out of curlers.

The three of them had ended up at Sally’s house, a classy, over-sized cottage affair off of Bellagio Road. Her moms were at a charity function for the evening, so they had the whole place to themselves, including Sally’s entire cupboard (the British kind, not the American) of beauty supplies.

Which was excellent--but if ever there was a need for a cinematic trope in real life, it was now. If only Sherlock could have squashed the whole beautifying process into a movie montage with a moronic pop song playing in the background. When he’d proposed this venture, he’d conveniently forgotten that he and Donovan didn’t exactly see eye-to-eye on matters of style—or on much of anything, really. They had the same ends in mind, but they’d been bickering about the means for hours.

And hours. And hours. And fucking _hours_.

The Smash Hits of the 1980s playlist that was blaring from Sally's bathroom TV wasn’t helping, either. Sherlock had not been consulted on the soundtrack for their activities.

Aggravating as it was, though, Sherlock had to admit that his and Donovan's skills were largely complementary. Sally was more talented at hands-on application, but Sherlock had a better eye for colors and coordination, plus a comprehensive mental catalogue of historical fashion. And the product of their combined efforts was thoroughly satisfying: when they were finished with Molly, her hair was settling into an aura of auburn curls, her lips had been colored and glossed, her eyelashes had been darkened and curled, her skin had been exfoliated and moisturized, her upper lip had been waxed, her eyebrows had been tweezed and shaped, her fingernails and toenails had been buffed and polished, and her wardrobe had been completely revamped, to the extent that Sherlock had even taken a pair of scissors and Sally's sewing kit to the outfit that Molly had been wearing at the time. They’d also picked up a potpourri of apparel essentials while still at the mall.

And it was a good thing that flannel was in right now, since Molly had admitted to owning rather a lot of it.

When she finally looked at herself in the mirror after they finished (long past the early February nightfall), Molly squealed, jumped up and down twice, then threw her arms around Sherlock’s shoulders. Still making odd noises, she let him go and repeated the process with Sally, who grunted in surprise but generally seemed pleased.

***

Sherlock and Donovan had eventually compromised by giving Molly a classic girl-next-door look, homespun Americana with an urbane twist. For her debut at school the next day, they put her in a pale yellow plaid sundress, green oxford pumps, and a green cardigan. For her jewelry, they went with slender and classic: an onyx ring on one finger, a heart-shaped locket on her chest, and small gold hoops in her ears. Her makeup emphasized her dark eyes, and her hair flowed in auburn waves down to her shoulders.

The overall effect was charming, and Molly practically glowed as she walked—well, wobbled—down the concrete paths between the classrooms. She hadn’t quite mastered the art of balancing in heels yet.

Since it was lunch break and Sherlock had already sat in the cafeteria courtyard for exactly as long as he intended (re: the time it took to eat an apple, a bag of crisps, and a dubious vending machine chocolate bar), he and Sally were taking Molly on a lap of the quad, the communal square of concrete and topiary at the heart of the school. It was a gorgeous day for it, one of the finest that Southern California could muster, with a sky full of wispy cirrus, a gentle breeze, and a mild temperature that increased the clarity of the air by at least twenty-seven percent.

Sally was pointing out the social geography of the school as they walked and passed the lounging clumps of students. Stoners, neckbeards, activists, throwback goths, future MIT students, the Persian Mafia (“You can’t hang with them unless you own a BMW,” Sally explained, to which Sherlock clarified, “And they’re not an actual mafia, more’s the pity.”), and, of course, the crème de la crème: Janine Hawkins, Jim Moriarty, and the other elites of the school.

“Including my boyfriend, Philip,” Sally finished, pointing to a young man who was leaning against a tree, scratching his goatee, and reading a book with the title _13 Undiscovered Conspiracies of the 20th Century_. She smirked. “Isn’t he cute?”

“Wow, yeah,” Molly agreed with a grin. “And he seems really smart.”

Sherlock choked back a groan at that. He knew he had to be polite for the sake of continued amicable relations between himself and Donovan (at least until the next time she caught Anderson flirting with the cashier at Jamba Juice), but Philip Anderson was more aggravating than most, if only because of his unfailing habit of jumping to the exact wrong conclusion with any given set of data. For god’s sake, he probably wouldn’t be able to find the ocean if he was standing on the deck of the Titanic as it sank.

His train of thought was completely derailed, however, when Molly turned to him to add, “Which one is your boyfriend, Sherlock?”

Sherlock spun to gape at her. “As if!” he sputtered when he finally recovered his voice.

Her eyes widening despite the bright sunlight, Molly took a step back. “Are you not--" she stammered. "I mean, I thought…"

“Sherlock has attitude about dating high school boys,” Sally interrupted, curtailing Molly’s little freak out about misjudging his sexuality before it could get off the ground.

Sherlock let out an aggravated huff. That was the understatement of the 21st century. And why wouldn’t he have ‘attitude’ about it? His male peers were thick-headed slobs. He would compare them to dogs because of how they slobbered and constantly needed to be given directions, but he loved dogs. The thought of even spending more than an hour in close proximity to one of his male cohorts made his stomach feel queasy around the congealing remains of the chocolate bar—let alone letting one of them paw at him, kiss him, _romance_ him.

A stray memory rose to the surface of his thoughts: smooth, supple hands rubbing up his sides under his shirt, fingers spreading into the hollows between his ribs, promises that were softly made and ever so softly broken…

“I intend to marry my work, Donovan,” he snapped, firmly dragging himself back to the present and shoving the recollection back to Fucking Nowhere, where it belonged. “Dating,” he gave the word the sneer it deserved, “would only slow me down.”

“Plus they’re all too terrified of him to even try,” Sally added to the other girl with a quirk of her lips.

When Sherlock glared at her again, she lifted her chin and said, “It’s true. Name one guy you haven’t paralyzed with humiliation in the last two years.”

Sherlock ran his gaze over everyone he could see around them. Damn, she was right. But wait—“John,” he said triumphantly. “He manages to survive me constantly.”

“Who’s John?” Molly put in curiously.

“My parents’ former adopted son,” Sherlock explained. “He’s short and loathsome and joining the military.” He frowned, getting temporarily lost in a vision of John in combat fatigues, though he didn’t have enough data to know precisely how they’d look on him, considering that John always insisted on covering himself up with those hideous jumpers.

When Sherlock came back to himself, the girls were staring at him oddly. “What?” he demanded. 

Sally shook her head, her lips turning down in an expression he found inscrutable. “Don’t let John give you too much shit, freak,” she said in a tone that, for her, was wildly affectionate. Then she tossed her long, bushy ponytail over one shoulder. “Anyways, I promised I’d go collect some raffle materials for NHS before fifth. Catch up with you two in a few?”

Sally had been the president of the Beverly Hills National Honor Society chapter since sophomore year, though Sherlock hadn’t been there to see it at that point. He'd always been rather impressed by how she managed her perpetual no-shits-given attitude while still being such an overachiever. 

Now, he waved a hand dismissively. “Laters.”

“Bye!" Molly chirped in agreement.

Once the other girl had gone, she smiled up at Sherlock. "You guys are so cool,” she said. “Hey, I think I’ll go get a pop from the cafeteria. Want anything?”

“Californians call it soda,” he corrected before he politely declined. 

After she left him to his own devices, Sherlock glanced around the crowded quad. If he just stood here, someone insufferable would probably come up and try to make chat with him. Luckily, he spotted an alcove behind a screen of low-hanging boughs that was currently empty. Ducking into it, he brushed a few seed pods from the unclaimed concrete bench and stretched out across it, steepling his fingers under his chin and letting the sounds of the busy campus wash over him indistinctly.

He hadn’t slept the night before, too jazzed from his success in transforming Molly from an ugly duckling to the proverbial swan, so he’d ended up getting pulled into some research on Victorian trepanning that he’d had on the backburner for weeks. As reluctant as he was to admit it, he did feel a little hazier today than normal because of the all-nighter. Perhaps he ought to use this solo time to—yuck—doze. Or at least start reorganizing his Mind Palace to accommodate the new data, both from the research and from Molly’s makeover.

He was rather proud of that, actually. He’d spared Molly a great deal of unpleasantness by taking her in hand. He’d never stoop to endorsing “fitting in,” but he did know how important it was to at least present a façade of impenetrability to the world. He’d learned that in his youth, when he hadn’t yet understood that the other children at his posh schools didn’t comprehend or appreciate the things he saw by looking. 

It was around the third time that Sherlock came home hiding bruises and a bloody nose that Mycroft had attempted to teach him that knowledge of the truth was best held in reserve as a weapon.

But knowledge had never been a weapon to Sherlock. He wasn’t a hoarder of secrets—he never had been. He’d rather spill them and see what happened. Much more fun that way.

Grinning to himself, Sherlock squirmed slightly to get more comfortable on his concrete perch. His thoughts drifted back to John, for whatever reason. He wondered if John would like what he’d done with Molly. How would he take to being proven wrong about Sherlock’s character, his ability to be unselfish? The look on his face when he found out would probably be priceless… Would he give in and say that Sherlock was brilliant again?

Suddenly, Sherlock’s reverie was interrupted by a thump and a familiar yelp.

Eyes snapping open, he saw Molly with a can of Dr Pepper in one hand, the contents of her book bag spilled all over the ground, her body being stabilized by—of all people—Greg Lestrade.

“Oh God,” Molly was gasping, “I’m so sorry! I swear, I’m not usually such a klutz—” She gripped the edge of Lestrade’s leather jacket with her free hand, babbling, “It’s the heels, I mean, I don’t really know how to balance in them yet—”

“Hey, don’t worry about it, Molls,” Lestrade answered with cheerful gruffness. “I’ve actually been looking for you.”

Molls? Sitting up behind his screen of leaves, Sherlock glanced at his protégé askance. When had she and Greg bloody Lestrade gotten on nickname terms?

“You have?” Molly asked him, brushing her hair out of her face.

Lestrade released his grip on her waist with what, to Sherlock, looked like reluctance. “Yeah. I’m having this party two weekends from now. I was hoping I could get you to come.” He grinned at her and scratched the back of his neck with one hand, the shaggy, dyed silver hair fanning down over his fingers. “I thought it would be a good way for you to meet people, learn about the local scene and all that.” 

“That sounds like a lot of fun,” Molly agreed shyly.

“Should be.” Looking down at her scattered belongings on the ground, Lestrade knelt to begin retrieving them. “You like to draw?” he wondered as he picked up a large sketchbook.

Sherlock had noticed the sketchbook peeking out of Molly’s bag the evening before, not to mention the ink and oil pastel stains on her fingers, but he’d dismissed the hobby as largely unimportant.

“Oh, yep.” Molly smoothed down her skirt and knelt next to him, placing her soda can carefully on the ground. “I’m not very good, but I love it. I like doing oil scenes a lot, but I also do some cartooning.” She started to flip through the pages. “I’ve got this one about a girl who’s a pathologist, which is what I kind of want to be—Dad wants me to go into medicine, anyway, and I’m not squeamish or anything—but she’s, she’s also secretly a superhero. She meets the ghosts of the people whose bodies she examines sometimes, and, um, they help her track down their killers.”

“Wow, that’s really cool.” Lestrade regarded her with the most focused expression Sherlock had ever seen on his usually slack-jawed face. “And these are really good. Seriously, Molls, you have real talent.”

“You think so?” the girl wondered, her cheeks turning pink.

This had gone far enough. When Sherlock saw Molly look at Greg Lestrade like that, he felt as if all his hard work to boost her social position was dissolving, crumbling into the sea like the Colossus of Rhodes. No, no, no!

He jerked himself upright and strode toward them.

Lestrade was the first to spot his approach. “Hey, Sherlock,” he said, rising to his feet and giving Molly a hand up as she shouldered her bag.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock answered coldly as he ground to a halt, crossing his arms over his chest. 

The other boy blinked at him for a second, probably trying to figure out why he was glaring so many daggers, then started rustling around in his leather jacket for something. “Actually,” he said, “I wanted to invite you and Sally and Phil to a party I’m having next weekend.” He glanced at Molly again. “The same one I told you about. Pass it on?”

“I do not carry messages for Philip Anderson,” Sherlock sniped, taking Molly’s arm and attempting to tug her away.

Before he could stop her, though, Molly snatched the crumpled flier that Lestrade had finally found in his inner pocket. “Thanks, we’ll try to make it!” she called over her shoulder with a cheery little wave. “And sorry again for crashing into you!”

And because of that, they left Greg Lestrade with a big, soppy grin on his face. Goody fucking gumdrops.

Fuming silently, Sherlock led the way to an empty picnic table near where they’d been ditched by Donovan. “This looks like fun,” Molly said as she slid onto the bench across from him. Oblivious to Sherlock’s thunderous expression, she’d been examining the flier closely as they walked. “I’ve never been to this type of party before. Can we go?”

“It’ll just be local stoners,” Sherlock snapped. Taking a breath to get hold of himself, he added, “You have to be more careful about who you associate with, Molly.”

Molly frowned as she looked up at him, her forehead wrinkling in confusion. “You mean Greg? He’s really nice. He showed me where my classes were yesterday.”

“He’s a low-life,” Sherlock corrected brutally. “He does nothing with his free time but smoke pot and play guitar, and he probably doesn't even do that well. Letting your name be linked with his would be social suicide.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “You have six months left before you graduate. Do you really want to spend them as the laughingstock of the school?”

Molly sat back, staring at him in shock. “N-no,” she stammered. “I did like him, but…” She trailed off, hunching her shoulders.

Suddenly, Sherlock got the ghost of an idea about how to keep Molly’s own foolishness from undoing his work.

“Don’t sell yourself short now, Molly,” he said seriously as the idea corporealized into a full-fledged scheme. “You have something that’s completely unique in this school.”

The girl glanced around, her eyebrows drawing down. “Acne?” she wondered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I mean mystery,” he corrected impatiently. “As far as they all know, you were the most popular girl in your old school. And the fact that you associate with Donovan and I, well…” 

“It speaks very highly of your taste,” Sally put in as she rejoined them, a basket of National Scholarship Foundation club paraphernalia under one arm. “Hey, nerds.” 

“Donovan.” Sherlock gave her a nod of acknowledgement before directing his attention back to Molly again. “If you strike while the iron’s hot, Molly, you can become the girlfriend of any straight guy at this school.”

Molly blinked. “Like who?” she wondered, glancing between them uncertainly.

Squinting against the sunlight, Sherlock twisted to scan the crowds around them for options. Who was available? He tried not to pay attention to the fickle way his peers swapped their affections and bodily fluids, but he ought to be able to read the necessary signs, now. He needed someone with strong social standing, no existing attachments, mild manners, and the ability to be easily manipulated…

“I’ve got it!” He grabbed Sally’s arm across the table in triumph. “What about Jim?”

“He did just go through that break up,” Sally mused in agreement, her perfectly sculpted eyebrows rising.

“Who’s Jim?” Molly wondered, sitting up straighter.

“Jim Moriarty,” Sherlock supplied. While he didn’t have much of a taste for the boy personally, he was passingly handsome, nonthreatening, and, most importantly, popular—just what Molly needed to establish herself at this school. He pointed one long finger toward the nearby table where Moriarty’s derriere was currently perched as he told his friends some doubtlessly riveting story about what he'd done that weekend. “That’s him.”

Molly studied the laughing young man. “He seems kind of intense, yeah?” she hedged.

“He’s the social director of that whole crew,” Sally explained, resting her chin on one hand. “He’s supposed to be really smart. I hear he’s going into something with IT.”

As they watched, Jim Moriarty’s dark eyes drifted across the sea of students toward them, as if pulled by the magnet of their attention. When they finally fixated on Sherlock’s little group, Moriarty winked.

Quashing the urge to wrinkle his nose in distaste, Sherlock gave him a slight nod and turned back to Molly. “He just checked you out,” he informed her solemnly.

"He did, didn't he?"

If Molly’s cheeks had gone pink when she was complimented by Lestrade, now they were flaming. As she stared at Jim’s profile, Sherlock could practically see the stars forming in her eyes. “Wow," she murmured dreamily. "I never would’ve thought that a guy like him… I mean, just—wow. Do you really think you can set us up, Sherlock?”

“Of course,” Sherlock answered confidently. If he could catch criminals and turn frumpy Molly Hooper into the belle of the school, he could certainly manage a little matchmaking.

He closed his eyes to start forming a plan, the sunlight turning the underside of his lids red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Lollapalooza is an annual alt rock, punk, hip-hop, and EDM music festival.
> 
> -Trepanning is a medical procedure that involves drilling a hole in the skull to relieve pressure. Evidence suggests that in ancient times, it was thought to release the evil spirits that caused seizures, migraines, etc.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! The next chapter probably won't be up until S4 finishes airing. 
> 
> If you liked it or have ideas or concrit, drop me a line. Comments absolutely make my day.


	4. The Caring Lark: Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's, friends!
> 
> I'm so sorry this has taken me so long to post. I had to take some time after the runaway angst train of S4 to regain my feel for this story. :P
> 
> I'm derailing from the script of Clueless a bit over this chapter and the next because I wanted to do some more development of Sherlock and John's relationship. We'll snap back into the arc of the movie soon.

On Thursday after school, Sherlock came home to find John Watson firmly ensconced on his living room couch.

“Hey Sherlock,” the interloper called when Sherlock stomped in, looking up from where he was scribbling in a brown notebook that was balanced on one jean-clad thigh. Textbooks and worksheets were spread across the cushions around John, but the coffee table in front of him was clear, aside from one socked foot and a ham and tomato sandwich.

Ham and tomato was Sherlock’s favorite.

Mycroft had decamped on another trip to Washington the previous morning, leaving Sherlock to reap the benefits of solitude—or so he’d thought. All in all, John’s purpose in visiting was glaringly clear.

“Mycroft put you up to this, didn’t he?” Sherlock demanded, pausing in the archway to glower at the tell-tale sandwich.

A smile flitted across John’s expressive face. Putting aside his notebook, he stretched his arms over his head and said, “Yeah, he might have mentioned something about checking up on you.”

Sherlock switched the focus of his ire from the sandwich to the man who’d made it, unwilling to be distracted—and why would he be?—by the slice of skin that was exposed when John’s jumper rode up. “And you’re always so eager to oblige my dear fraternal autocrat.”

John frowned, sitting up straighter. “Mycroft has been very good to me, Sherlock. I’m in his debt. So if he wants me to stop by to make sure you don’t—I don’t know—join a cult or something while he’s gone, I’m going to bloody well do it.”

Sherlock sneered. John should know that he'd only join a cult if they were committing an interesting crime. “And your plan is to save me with sandwiches?” he mocked.

John tilted his face up toward him, lips twitching again. “Only the one.”

Fed up, Sherlock opened his mouth to tell John exactly what he thought of his unannounced visit and presumptuous (if singular) sandwich—but something stayed the words before they made it to his tongue.

John probably liked having a quiet home to come to, a sanctuary from the cramped flat in Westwood that he shared with three—no, four, look at his left sleeve—other university-aged males. It would be highly difficult to study there. Of course, John could always escape to the carrels in the campus library—but still, sitting at one of those desks for too long would make him sore and stiff. He’d reached the ripe old age of twenty-one, after all. His body was probably already starting to decay.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock plopped himself down on the floor on the other side of the coffee table and said, “What about tea?”

If John was surprised at the younger man's sudden change of heart, he didn’t show it. “Sure. Give me a minute,” he agreed, turning back to in his notebook and making another notation.

Folding his legs and leaning forward, Sherlock plucked the sandwich from the plate and took a bite—which was delicious, damn it. “And biscuits?” he asked hopefully as he chewed.

John’s wry half-smile had returned. “I might’ve seen some that Mycroft hid at the back of the pantry…”

Sherlock let a smirk spread. “And Cluedo?” he asked, batting his eyelashes.

John’s gaze snapped back up to him at that, his pencil freezing over the page. “No,” he answered. “Absolutely, uncategorically _not_.” Their past forays into board games—and particularly those based on fictional murders—had not gone well.

Sherlock swallowed his latest bite. “But John! You’re looking out for me as a favor for Mycroft, who has been so very good to you, and I’m _bored_.” He grinned evilly. “Solution: Cluedo.”

“I’m not that grateful to your brother, you cock.”

For some reason—maybe it was the words, maybe the look on John’s face—Sherlock broke into deep chuckles at that. To his surprise, John soon joined him, ducking his head. 

Sherlock couldn’t exactly explain why making John breathless with his tenor laughter gave him such a fizzy, lovely feeling inside. Maybe it was because John always felt the need to hide his face when he laughed, so Sherlock didn’t have to look at his distracting blue eyes and insufferable square jaw and oversized, demonstrative nose. 

Still chuckling, Sherlock finished his last bite of sandwich and licked the crumbs off his fingers. 

He looked up to see that the other man had focused on him intently. Before he could discern the cause, though, John exhaled and leaned back against the couch cushions, distancing himself. “Learn anything interesting in high school lately?” he asked, idly twirling his pencil in one hand.

Did they have to go over this again? “Fuck you.”

John’s eyebrows rose. “Still that bad?”

“Abysmal.” This time it was Sherlock’s turn to duck his chin to hide his smile.

“I’d better go put the kettle on, then.” Giving a little hum, John suited action to words.

All in all, it was a surprisingly pleasant evening. After he came back with two steaming mugs of English Breakfast, John made room for Sherlock on the couch and turned on the TV. They drank their tea (Sherlock stealing John’s in the suspicion that it was better) and ate the Oreos that Mycroft had indeed squirreled away in the back of the pantry (though Sherlock really only liked the cream centers, so he made John eat all his wafers) and bickered over the remote. If left to his own devices, John would watch nothing but the news (sensationalist, dull) and the occasional James Bond marathon (sensationalist, unlikely).

Eventually, of course, John gave up the battle and let Sherlock turn on crap reality TV, provided that Sherlock kept him entertained by deducing the contestants’ private lives. Which he was glad to do, because John liked his deductions. John thought his deductions were amazing.

Every once in a while when he was with his ex-foster brother, Sherlock would get an odd, empty-feeling queasiness in the pit of his stomach, as if he was missing something very important. This wasn’t one of those times.

Though he never did convince John to play Cluedo.

***

Sherlock hadn’t forgotten his promise to Molly, of course. He was going to set her up with Jim Moriarty, but he needed to figure out how. One wink across a quad did not a romance make.

Sherlock’s first move was to compile everything he knew about Moriarty, building a web on his bedroom wall with thumbtacks, scrawled notes, and screenshots he’d printed from his target's Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram accounts.

Most of it was miscellany, like Jim’s favorite brand of bubblegum (Bubble Yum, cotton candy-flavored. He could be seen chewing it frequently). The salient details, however, amounted to this:

Moriarty was an only child, born into wealth and adored by his family. He was an intelligent student. Not gifted, perhaps, but certainly proficient. And despite his well-documented sense of mischief and history of pulling pranks on unsuspecting victims, all of the teachers loved him, perhaps because he was so deferential to authority.

Regardless of that, the most crucial fact about Moriarty, it seemed, was that he was well-connected. Very well-connected. He knew everyone.

More to the point, he knew dirt on everyone. So did Sherlock, but that was just because he saw it, not because he’d gone looking.

Sherlock did spare a thought to wonder if Molly would truly be happy as Jim’s girlfriend. But the point of this endeavor wasn’t to find the love of her life, whatever he might have led her to believe: it was merely to give her a solid social footing in her new school. And annoying as it was to admit, Jim Moriarty was much more popular than Sherlock would ever be. He would be able to help her settle at Beverly Hills High in style.

Vague misgivings were no reason not to move forward with his plan.

The next move to hook Jim, Sherlock decided, would be to stage an interaction between him and Molly in a non-school environment. But Moriarty couldn’t suspect that it was a setup, so it would have to be some type of group outing. Sherlock’s nose wrinkled. He would have to invite the whole gang, as it were.

The perfect solution presented itself in Yearbook, when Janine came up with the idea of doing a two-page spread of BHH students (a.k.a., the people Janine liked) in iconic LA locales. Ugh. But Janine and Jim Moriarty were practically joined at the hip, so the object of Sherlock’s scheming was sure to be dragged along for the shoot.

That was how Sherlock found himself at the Getty Center museum that Saturday afternoon, a rather expensive camera on loan from the school in one hand while a cluster of his cohorts reclined photogenically on the edge of a gushing fountain.

“Molly, you’re too far out of the picture,” Sherlock chided. Sally and Anderson were curled up on one end of the ledge and Janine had draped herself languidly against Jim’s left side in the middle, but Molly was sitting far back from the others on the fountain’s lip and seemed too shy to scoot closer. 

“Jim, why don’t you put your arm around her?”

Jim Moriarty blinked at Sherlock from beneath the bill of his baseball cap. “All right,” he sing-songed, sweeping out his right arm and cinching it around Molly’s waist. He smiled toothily back at the camera, and Molly turned bright red. 

Sherlock clicked the shutter, trusting that the viewfinder would hide his smirk.

***

Sherlock had nixed the initial plans to visit either the Griffith Observatory or the Hollywood sign, having zero interest in either astronomy or hiking. Also, he was fairly certain he didn't own the right shoes.

Sherlock did like art, though. The Getty’s collection was fascinating, with exhibits ranging from ancient glassmaking to a dissection of modern mass media. He would have to come back here sometime when he wasn't splitting his attention between the art and his companions. 

Right now, however, he had a job to do--and he was doing it damn well. After he’d made sure that Molly and Jim Moriarty sat together on the cramped tram ride up the mountain, he’d maneuvered the group so that Jim and Molly were traveling together from room to room in the museum. The two of them seemed as thick as thieves now, Jim playing the courteous swain, Molly the shy ingénue. Of course, they both looked over their shoulders frequently to ask Sherlock’s opinion (Moriarty seemed particularly taken by an image of a man being flayed alive and wanted to know if it was forensically accurate, popping his Bubble Yum and paying rapt attention to Sherlock’s answer), but Sherlock preferred to observe the amorous developments from close up, anyway.

Unfortunately, since Sally and Anderson were in one of the sickeningly sweet on-again phases of their relationship (and how Donovan could stand to listen to Anderson’s loud and misinformed complaints about the artwork, Sherlock had no clue), that meant that he was left to spend the day escorting Janine.

Janine, who was as plastic as a credit card. Janine, who laughed constantly, but never at anything that was actually funny. Janine, who had made his life a living hell for the first half of the school year by suggesting the most inane projects for the yearbook class (like that godawful video blog).

Having finally escaped her companionship after they left a wing of 18th-century portraits, Sherlock approached the edge of the museum’s main plaza terrace. The Getty Center was an elevated complex built into a ridge in the mountains just north of the Los Angeles urban sprawl, so it had a view that would reach to the Pacific Ocean on a clear day. Sherlock couldn’t quite see the water today, but he could lean against the concrete ledge at the edge of the terrace and survey the city that stretched out below.

The buildings and streets were all oddly indistinct, from up here. By contrast, the clouds that drifted overhead were cast in sharp chiaroscuro. They were atypically dark-bellied, for Southern California. It would rain soon. Contrary to popular belief, it did rain in LA on occasion.

Standing here and looking outward, though, Sherlock was getting a sense of something like vertigo, but not in terms of height: instead, he felt a wave of disorientation about his life, himself. He wasn’t much given to introspection, but it suddenly struck him as unsettling that he, Sherlock Holmes of Sussex, should be standing here above the infamous City of Angels, thinking about whether or not he needed to apply sunscreen and wishing for a pair of binoculars. How had he arrived at this point in geography, in time, in his life? With all his intelligence, he still didn’t know if he could retrace the path if he tried.

Sherlock turned his back to the concrete railing, his eyes seeking out Molly and Moriarty. They were standing together by a Cubist sculpture, laughing. He couldn’t hear what was being said.

“Feeling lonely, Sherl?”

Oh god, Janine again. She was as hard to shake as a rhinovirus. Suddenly glad for the fact that his eyes were hidden behind his sunglasses, he folded his arms and drawled, “Ever so. You’ve discovered my secret."

The girl leaned next to him and crossed her miles of bare legs, tilting her head. “I’ve seen you watching him, you know,” she said.

Sherlock frowned. Watching who? “As much as I’m pained to admit it, I do not. Know,” he clarified when she just looked confused.

Her expression quickly transformed to one of smugness. “It might work out better than you think, Sherl,” she chirped, tossing her ponytail over one shoulder. “It’s almost Valentine’s day.”

Sherlock just shook his head. There was no fathoming Janine.

***

After the group photos finally earned Janine’s satisfaction, Sherlock drew Molly away to the Getty’s central cactus garden for a few private pictures. Glancing around, he snapped a mimosa flower from one of the cultivated bushes and handed it to her.

“Sherlock!” Molly gasped. “Should you have done that?”

Sherlock snorted. “No one saw. Hold it under your chin. That’s good. You know, the Victorian flower language is a fascinating form of cryptography. To the Victorians, this flower symbolized chastity. Oh, now you’re doing something with your face. Stop it.” He clicked the shutter and studied his work. “Better.” 

“Neat picture,” came Jim’s breathless voice from nearby. 

Sherlock shot a look over his shoulder to take in the other boy’s approach. Yes, Jim was standing close behind him, his glittering dark eyes flickering between Sherlock and Molly. 

“I have an excellent subject," Sherlock replied, lowering his voice to a confidential rumble. "Isn't Molly gorgeous?”

Moriarty nodded and smiled winningly up at him. “Can you send me that picture, Sherlock? You have my number, right?”

Camera forgotten, Sherlock turned to face him fully, his eyebrows drawing down. “No.”

Pulling an orange highlighter pen from his backpack, the other boy carefully took Sherlock’s left hand in his own and wrote seven digits on its back. “There you go,” he said when he finished, giving Sherlock’s hand a little squeeze as he released it and shooting a conspiratorial glance toward Molly. “Now, we can hang out whenever we want.”

“Thanks,” Sherlock said to his retreating back. “Catch you later.”

He raised an eyebrow at Molly, who had flushed again and was bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, trying to hold in a squeal. 

Sherlock took another picture to commemorate the moment. As expected, his efforts at matchmaking were turning into a raging success.

***

The rain arrived in the dark on Sunday morning, flooding the storm gutters and making Mycroft's palm trees lurch wildly from side to side.

Truth be told, after he woke up with gray light filtering through a torrent of water outside his bedroom window, Sherlock felt a strong desire to do nothing but spend the day lounging around in his pajamas and stretching out like a cat.

But Molly was coming over, so he had to set an example.

Sigh.

By the time Molly clattered in at around eleven and shook the drops from her polka dot umbrella, he’d shifted the furniture to make a large empty space in the center of Mycroft’s living room. He’d been taking some of his leisure time to give the girl a series of lessons, and he’d thought that today would be a great opportunity for one that he was actually excited about.

“Ballroom dancing?” Molly squeaked when he told her, brown eyes widening. She looked half-terrified, half-enthralled by the idea.

Sherlock smirked, positioned her arms at his shoulder and waist, and cued the music.

***

“Once again, Molly,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth half an hour later, “I must insist that you learn to tell the difference between _my feet_ and the _floor_.”

Molly was looking very flustered, clumps of auburn frizz sticking out from either side of her head. “I’m sorry, Sherlock! I’m really trying, I just—I got distracted!”

“By what?”

Taking a deep breath, she lifted her chin toward him mulishly. “Well, you’re awfully good-looking, aren’t you?” she snapped.

Sherlock blinked down at her, temporarily flummoxed. Molly was being awkward because she found Sherlock attractive? Hadn't he made it clear that he was batting for a different league?

At the sound of a choked-off laugh from the doorway, Sherlock’s motor functions came back online. Whipping around, he was treated to the sight of John Watson fresh from the outdoors, his dirty blond hair messy from the rain, his chest swelling with fast but measured breaths under a square bomber jacket that emphasized his sturdy stance and the breadth of his shoulders.

Which was understandably distracting—because Sherlock hadn’t seen John in anything but unflattering jumpers since the summer—and the color of John’s hair when it was wet was fascinatingly undefinable, the individual strands ranging from gold to brown to deep orange, like ochre, an earth pigment containing hydrated iron oxide—and he’d apparently joined a Frisbee league recently, of all things, with that distinctive light bruise on the edge of his cheek—and of course Molly had turned around too at his arrival, and her skirt would catch on the edge of the coffee table, which they’d moved to the side for dancing, and she would trip and fall into Sherlock— 

So perhaps it wasn’t entirely without cause that he overbalanced, windmilled his arms, and tumbled onto the floor.

_Maybe they didn’t see me,_ he thought as he lay on the carpet and tried to catch his breath.

Of course, Molly’s frantic gasp of his name put paid to that possibility. Despite that, it was John who was kneeling over him almost instantly, tugging gently at Sherlock’s forearms. “Easy there,” he murmured. “Can you sit up for me?”

His thoughts swimming, Sherlock accepted John’s help, using his momentum once he was upright to lean forward and bury his nose in the other man’s jacket--which smelled, oddly enough, like motorcycle exhaust. Leaving the question of when John had been riding a motorcycle aside (since he’d clearly taken public transit that day), Sherlock shifted his nose upward toward John’s neck to chase his natural scent, the clean but sharp-edged musk of his sweat. 

He’d started a spreadsheet a few years back about the way John smelled after various activities, trying to see if he could distinguish high amounts of particular hormones and chemicals by scent alone. Perhaps it was time to start adding to it again.

Oh, but John was moving. Gently prodding the back of Sherlock’s skull with one hand, using the other to lift Sherlock’s chin from where the point had dug into his shoulder. Asking, “Can you focus on me, sweetheart?” as he stared worriedly into Sherlock’s eyes.

Hm, Sherlock liked when John called him that. He'd done it back during their early summers together, whenever Sherlock injured himself. 

But it would never do to let the man get away with something as trite as an endearment--so he met John’s eyes (aegean denim cobalt lapis blue blue blue blue blue), batted his lashes, and asked, “Do you stare soulfully at all your patients, doctor?” If it came out husky, it was only because he'd recently had all the air knocked out of his lungs.

“I was checking if you’re concussed, you git,” John answered, pulling back and climbing to his feet. He ran a hand through his hair. “Needless to say, it seems you’re fine.”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock protested, following John up. Finding his equilibrium, he grinned and leaned closer. “Maybe you ought to kiss me to check if I bit my tongue.”

Unfortunately, he didn’t get to observe John’s reaction to that, because Molly—whose absence Sherlock hadn’t even registered, he now realized—was skidding back into the living room holding a bag of ice chips. “I got these from the freezer,” she gasped.

“That won’t be necessary,” Sherlock told her in a more serious tone. “No matter what it looked like, I didn’t hit my head.”

“But that was fast thinking,” John interjected kindly.

“Er…” Molly blinked at him, then looked back at Sherlock questioningly.

Ugh, social niceties. “John, this is Molly,” Sherlock said flatly. “Molly, John.”

John shot him a look of amusement, then extended a hand and smiled at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Pleasure,” he said.

“Likewise,” Molly agreed, shaking it with her own smile. “Um, you’re not at all like Sherlock described.”

“I imagine not,” John said, his eyebrows lifting as he shot Sherlock a look of restrained laughter.

“Your dancing lessons are over for the day, Molly,” Sherlock put in, glaring at the blond man pointedly. “However, we still need to work on your vocabulary and grammar. In an atmosphere where we can _focus_.” Molly was proving to be unusually receptive to masculine wiles, and he didn't want her to have the chance to develop the mistaken impression that John was _charming_ or some other nonsense like that.

John blinked at him. “Right.” He took a step back. “It was nice meeting you, Molly. I’ll be in the dining room if you two need me.”

“Why would we need you?” Sherlock wondered snidely.

“No reason,” John answered with a huff as he disappeared.

Molly was looking at Sherlock. She had that look that people sometimes got before they asked intrusive and ill-informed questions.

“Tell me the difference between hung and hanged,” Sherlock interrupted sharply.

***

Contrary to his promise, John wasn’t in the dining room when Sherlock went to find him after Molly left two hours later, though his books and papers were still spread across the table. The center point was the same brown notebook that he’d been scribbling in on Thursday, the same #2 pencil with a chewed eraser sitting atop it. Already suspecting what he was going to find, Sherlock opened it to read “Creative Writing 168, Property of John Watson” neatly labeled on the inside cover.

The first page had the class rubric taped to it. Curious (as always), Sherlock scanned it quickly.

**Creative Writing 168: The Observer Narrator**

**In this class, you will learn to use one of the most interesting conventions of fiction: the observer narrator. Like Jay Gatsby, sometimes the protagonist of a story can be too mysterious or “too much” to narrate a story themselves without alienating your readers. Explore famous and experimental uses of this convention while trying it yourself…**

A clatter from the kitchen made Sherlock close the notebook hastily, though an instant later he was berating himself. What did he care if John knew he was snooping?

When he stalked into the kitchen, John had his back turned to the door and was washing the mound of dishes that Sherlock had accumulated while Mycroft was away. Mycroft had ordered a cleaning service to come once a week, but Sherlock had been doing some time-sensitive experiments during the previous appointment and hadn’t wanted to be disturbed, so he hadn’t let them in.

Seeing John soaping up his mountain of crumb-covered plates and moldy cutlery, Sherlock felt an unaccustomed pang of guilt. John wasn’t being paid to look after him. Did John feel like this was the price for him coming over—that he constantly needed to prove he was useful?

Leaning against the doorframe and watching John’s straight back and methodical scrubbing, Sherlock shook his head to dispel the uncertainty. So John liked to be useful—so what? He was probably dead chuffed with Sherlock’s pile of unwashed dishes, considering that it meant that Sherlock had actually been eating.

Uncrossing his arms, he prowled closer and asked, “So, what did you think?” when his mouth was a few inches behind John’s right ear.

John stiffened, then very obviously forced his shoulders to relax again. “Try to remember that you’re in splashing range right now, Sherlock,” he said.

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “You wouldn’t.”

John shot him a look over one shoulder, weighing a wet, balled-up rag in one hand. He grinned. “Try me.”

Sherlock backed up hastily.

“But what did you think?” he repeated, shifting his weight from foot to foot and refusing to be cowed by the fact that John had twisted to face him and was now twirling the washcloth as he leaned against the sink.

“Of…?”

“Of Molly! Of how I’ve taken her under my wing!” Sherlock gritted his teeth. He hated to spell it out, but John wouldn’t understand what he meant if he didn’t. “I’ve been…attempting…to modify my behavior to incorporate your critique.” 

The rag forgotten, John tilted his head, obviously still confused. “Modify…?” 

Oh, for god’s sake. “I’m being charitable, John! I’m doing good for the world!”

Slowly, John blinked at him, the rainy light from the window over the sink catching in his ochre hair. “Because I called you self-centered?”

Sherlock sniffed sharply and crossed his arms. Finally, John had grasped the fact that he’d been proven wrong.

Instead of acknowledging his error, however, John was smiling at him. Sherlock didn’t understand the way John was smiling at him. “By teaching her waltzing and grammar?” the other man asked.

“Wit and grace,” Sherlock corrected primly. “I’m taking a lost soul and giving her the tools to become poised and popular.”

At that, John’s smile disappeared. “Oh my god,” he said. “That’s really, really not what I meant.”

Sherlock frowned. “Of course you wouldn’t have thought of this particular application—”

“No,” John interrupted, straightening. “I mean, Sherlock, you can’t just—a person’s not a project, okay? You can’t just overwrite someone’s personality and think that you’re helping them out. Do you really think that putting her through some type of, of finishing school or whatever that was will help Molly make friends with people who like her for herself?”

At John's words, Sherlock felt a sudden flare of anger in his core. “Herself?” he repeated. “Molly would have been ostracized without my help. I’m making her upwardly mobile, John, which you of all people should appreciate!”

“Me of all people? What do you mean, me of all people?” John's voice had dropped.

Sherlock fought back a shiver and stepped closer, unwilling to yield. “My family,” he said coldly, “has been very good to you.”

At that, John displayed three physical tells at once: his mouth fell open, his expression shuttered, and he swayed backward as if struck.

Any vulnerability vanished a split-second after it appeared, though, since John then spun on one heel and marched to gather his things from the dining table.

Oh, perhaps that had been a bit not good.

“Wait, John—”

“Fuck off, Sherlock,” John growled as he slung his bag over one shoulder. The sound of the front door slamming echoed through the house.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck bloody shit arse fuck. Idiot, _idiot!_

Sherlock raced to the door behind John, then paused, clenching his hands in his curls. Then he opened it and didn’t see John outside anymore, so he slammed it shut a second time.

He liked making John peeved and frustrated and annoyed, not actually angry. He hadn’t meant to imply that John was some type of social climber. Well, he had, but it wasn’t true. And he’d _known_ this was a sensitive topic. Of course John had class issues. He’d grown up poor with an abusive father. Sherlock had even been thinking at just the beginning of the conversation that John had the constant need to compensate for his adoptive family’s generosity by being useful—

About to stomp back inside, Sherlock noticed something: in his haste to leave, one of John’s notebooks had fallen onto the floor in the foyer. The brown one for creative writing.

Stooping, Sherlock grabbed the notebook. He’d return it to John. He’d return it to John, and then John would forgive him for saying such stupid, stupid things.

But he needed to give John time to get home, back to his cramped university flat. John was taking the bus. So he might as well look through it first.

Ignoring the way his fingers trembled, Sherlock opened the first page.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! As always, I'd love to hear what you thought. Comments make my day.


	5. High Dudgeon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oookay, so this chapter was supposed to be posted last month, but life got in the way. Sorry!
> 
> Please notice the new tag. I've decided to up the rating to Explicit just to cover my bases.
> 
> As always, thanks to all the awesome people who've left kudos and great comments to help spur me along. You're wonderful.

Though a large part of him still wanted to run after the 720 to Westwood so that he could grab John and apologize, Sherlock sank to the floor, folded his legs, and began to read. 

On the first half of the first page of John's brown notebook for Creative Writing 168, he had simply written, 

_Nothing._

Then, seven lines down, he’d added, _This is ridiculous. Nothing ever happens to me. What am I supposed to ??? Fuck, bollocks & shit, taking this class was a bad idea._

Pulling one knee up so that he could lean his chin against it, Sherlock let out a small, watery huff at this. Obviously, the professor for this course had told John to draw his fiction from life. At least he'd had the sense to realize that his life was inherently dull.

The next few pages were filled with notes about writing technique, the structure of stories, and famous examples of observer narrators. After the notes tapered off, John had scribbled, _You can do this Watson._

This was followed by several doodles, presumably to pep himself up for the main event of actually using words. Seeing this, Sherlock gave a weak smile. John was so bad at doodling.

When he shifted to the following page, though, the bottom dropped out of his stomach.

_Maybe base the character off someone?_ it asked. And right underneath, John’s neat handwriting read:

_William Scott was a consulting detective. The only one in the world. He’d invented the job._

_He was brilliant, but a total git. A madman. Barmy. Amazing, though. He could look at the world and put together all these little facts—clues—to make deductions, to piece together what had happened and when and who did it. It was terrifying, but also exhilarating. He saw you like no one else could. Spending time with him was like—like falling into Wonderland or something, where everything you expected was turned upside down._

By the time he finished reading this, the bottom hadn’t just dropped out of Sherlock’s stomach: it had sunk all the way through the floor, climbed out of the house through the basement window, and started hitchhiking to Tijuana.

As Sherlock scanned rapidly through the rest of the written-in pages, he felt his anger mounting. It was almost as if the narrator—who John might as well name Hamish, just to keep things even—was William Scott’s _babysitter._ So this was what John thought of him?

For example:

_William Scott was a genius, yes, but he also had the most extraordinary gaps in his knowledge. Like the current political climate and knowing that the earth orbits the sun._

Or:

_In many ways, he was like a child. He was giddy when something interested him and phenomenally depressed when he lacked stimulus. He needed guidance in some of the most ordinary aspects of life, like remembering to eat or pay bills._

It made sense. That was why John had called him sweetheart—because Sherlock was still a child to him. A little boy who wanted John to admire his derring-do and kiss his boo-boos better. Hadn’t he mentally railed against John’s caretaking time and again? But he’d thought—

He didn’t know what he’d thought. And it didn’t matter. John Watson didn’t matter. Not one fucking bit.

Sherlock stomped upstairs and shoved the notebook under his bed. Then he threw himself onto the mattress and curled up to sulk, springs creaking with his collapse.

***

On Monday, Sherlock didn’t bother explaining his foul mood to Molly and Sally.

He hadn’t contacted John to apologize, obviously. Yes, what he’d said to John had been rash and cruel, but the more he thought about it (with the descriptions from the notebook wriggling like snakes through his brain), the more clearly he remembered John’s callous dismissal of Sherlock’s efforts to help Molly Hooper.

What did John “I can’t even come up with an original character” Watson know about it? Sherlock was making Molly’s life better. How many girls could say that about John?

And Sherlock wasn’t some type of child savant who was constantly tripping over social cues like banana peels. He didn’t need John to take care of him. He’d never asked for John to feed him sandwiches and massage his scalp to look for injuries and tell him how bloody impressive he was. He'd just—he might have liked it, all right, but who didn't like being appreciated and having someone around to eat the yucky parts of the Oreos so that he could get the cream?

Sally dragged him to the mall after school, although Sherlock did nothing but follow her between boutiques, kicking his bags with each step and scowling at the cashiers. Even free cologne samples from his beloved Dolce & Gabbana couldn’t cheer him up.

“What the hell is your problem?” his companion finally demanded, waving a plaid deerstalker from the Macy’s hat rack in his face. “Are you suffering from buyer’s remorse?”

“No, nothing like that,” Sherlock grunted. Unthinkingly, he grabbed the hat and jammed it onto his head. He flicked a glance toward a nearby mirror to assess the damage. Ew, no.

When Sally just continued to look unimpressed after Sherlock tossed the hat back where it belonged, he snapped, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Are you on your period?” she snarked, hands on her hips.

He scowled. “By that logic, you must be on yours incessantly.”

Sally punched him in the arm. “No, that’s just my personality,” she answered sweetly.

On Tuesday, Sherlock’s phone buzzed with a text during second period. 

_Sherlock, do you have my creative writing notebook?_

Sherlock didn’t respond.

The next one came in during third. _I know you took it_

Sherlock held his phone under his desk, answering without needing to see the keys. _If you knew, why did you bother to ask? –SH_

_I need it back. I have a midterm paper due next week_

Eyes narrowing, Sherlock typed, _Has your recollection of me faded already?_ with bold jerks of his thumbs. 

Then he deleted it, instead sending, _Accidentally set it on fire yesterday. Whoops. –SH_

The response to that was only two words.

Sherlock huffed under his breath. John was so rude. _I can mail you the remains. I won’t pay for express shipping, though. –SH_

When John’s lack of a reply became conspicuous, Sherlock pocketed his phone with a grim smile and focused on the lecture again.

In fourth period, however, Sherlock’s phone buzzed twice. Two texts? Thumbing to his messages, he saw that one was from John and the other was from the newest number in his phone: Jim Moriarty.

The first was straightforward, like John himself. 

_You’re mad at me_

The second said, _Hey, Sherlock! This is Jim. Thought I’d give you a holler, make sure I got the right number. You were sooo good in Mrs. Hudson’s class today! I never knew there was so much to learn about lobotomies._ This was followed by a little winky face.

Right—they were finishing up _One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest_ in English, and he’d bullshitted (bullshat?) his way through a presentation about the book's medical inaccuracies that morning. 

Sherlock nibbled his lower lip, deciding to get Jim out of the way first. _Hello, Jim_ , he wrote. _There is indeed quite a bit to learn about lobotomies. Maybe we can chat about it after school? Molly wanted to go to Yogurtland. –SH_

To John, he answered, _Why would I be? Even if you did insult my personality and completely misrepresent the logical underpinnings of my methods, I make a point not to be offended by someone who misplaces such a high average of punctuation marks. –SH_

Forcefully hitting send, Sherlock sat back in satisfaction.

When his phone buzzed again, he opened his latest message with a kind of vindictive glee. 

The feeling was short-lived. 

John had written, _What are you talking about_

And then, just to be a bitch about it, he’d added _???!!?_

Sherlock barely restrained himself from gaping. How could the man be so bloody thick?

_Um, hello? Your “detective story”? You wrote about me without my permission! –SH_

Thumbs flying, he added, _You wrote BADLY about me without my permission! –SH_

And just to cap it off… _I suppose it makes sense, considering our discussion on Sunday. You really have no chance for success without piggybacking off of Holmeses, do you? –SH_

Anger had always had a magnifying effect on his verbosity.

The same didn’t seem to be true of John Watson, since the response that arrived a full six minutes later was tellingly brief.

_you absolute cock_

_Perhaps you should send me a picture to clarify that_ , Sherlock goaded. _Nuance can get lost with the written word._

“Mr. Holmes, is that a cell phone?”

Fuck. His maths teacher was bearing down on him, an unholy glint in her eyes, one hand already outstretched to confiscate his means of communication with the outside world. 

He had no choice but to surrender it. And when he reacquired his phone at the end of the school day, Sherlock found only a single text waiting for him.

_Yay! I LOVE froyo!_ Moriarty had said.

***

The Yogurtland run was productive, in that Molly and Jim spent the whole time chatting and paying attention to each others' mouths—that was, watching each other use spoons. At least, when they weren’t watching Sherlock use a spoon. 

Sherlock would have rather just sulked into his Original Tart than participate in the conversation at that point, but he played nice for Molly’s sake. The girl was practically guaranteed to bumble her way to a disaster if left to her own devices.

The continuing lack of reply from John was disconcerting—even more so because Sherlock went home to a house that was still empty. Mycroft tried not to leave for more than a week at a time, but he’d apparently encountered complications with his latest plan for world domination. As much as Sherlock found his brother’s company loathsome and invasive, he would at least have provided a _distraction._ The silence in the house seemed to mock Sherlock at every turn.

At 9:37 that evening, Sherlock’s will finally broke. Curling to face the back of the couch and ignore the TV people who he’d been yelling at for the last hour, he stabbed out a text and hit send with far more pressure than a touchscreen required.

_John. –SH_

_John, continuing to ignore me is an overreaction. –SH_

Sherlock could see by the little dots that appeared that he’d got John’s attention. John didn't actually decide on a reply until eight minutes later, though.

_Sherlock, you asked me to send you a dick pic or something this morning just because you were mad. I don’t know how I’m the one being over the top right now_

Blinking, Sherlock scrolled up through their message history to reread what he'd said. Oh. He supposed it could certainly be interpreted that way.

A second text from John arrived hot on the first one's heels. _And I can’t talk now—at a pub._

_If you’re alone at a pub, you’ll look less pathetic if you keep texting me. –SH_

_Not alone_

_Really? Someone wants to be seen in public with you? –SH_

_Where are you? Maybe I’ll stop by. –SH_

_Do you have a fake ID?_

_I won’t need one. –SH_

_Sherlock, I hate to break it to you, but you sometimes look about 12._

Sherlock gasped. _Do not! –SH_

_Yeah you do, actually. Like when you’re mad._

_You probably do right now._

Sherlock barely restrained himself from hurling his phone at the wall.

***

It didn’t help his mood that the next day was Valentine's, and no one in the pocket universe of Beverly Hills High would grant him a moment to forget it.

The once-yearly celebration of being deemed by someone as an acceptable reproductive partner had always grated on Sherlock’s nerves, but he was finding his tolerance even lower than usual this year. The fact that the school would be redecorated in pink was a given, as were the booths of student organizations selling flowers and chocolates and singing teddy bears, as were the snogging couples in the halls and the clusters of girls giggling over who’d given them candy hearts that said “Hug me.”

Yurgh.

Was there a version of the Grinch for Valentine’s Day? If so, Sherlock wanted to offer him a blowjob. Call it a reward for doing something— _anything_ —to get on with it and ruin this godawful frenzy of sentiment.

Alternatively, maybe it would be more effective to take matters into his own hands and set up a table in the quad with an exhibit on venereal diseases. The teachers certainly couldn’t say that the information wasn’t timely.

Sherlock's gloominess lifted long enough for him to chuckle darkly to himself.

Despite the fact that he openly glowered at anyone who approached him, Sherlock actually received four Valentines over the course of the day. The first was from Sally, damn her to hell. She’d found him between classes to offer a large card that said “To My Favorite Freak.” Sherlock had been suspicious when he opened it—but not suspicious enough, since he could do nothing to dodge the cloud of glitter that immediately exploded in his face.

Sally was already sprinting away down the hall by the time he stopped choking on the shiny particulates. “I’m going to murder you in your bed, Donovan!” he yelled after her.

"But you'll look so pretty while you do!" she called back, cackling. Then she disappeared around the corner, leaving Sherlock being stared at by at least seven smirking witnesses.

He received the second Valentine an hour later when he was sitting in the cafeteria, still fuming (and sparkling).

“Who the fuck thinks it’s all right to just cover someone in plastic flakes?” he demanded, stabbing at his chicken salad. “If I die tonight, I’ll be able to write the name of my killer in glitter on the floor!”

Molly propped her chin on one hand and dabbed her lips with a napkin. “I think you’d need a proper adhesive for that,” she mused. “It’s stuck to you right now because of the oils on your skin and hair… Oh, you were being sarcastic. Sorry.”

Sherlock glared at the paper cup of pastel-colored candy hearts that had come with the meal. “Stop apologizing. You apologize for everything. It’s a sign of low self-confidence.”

Molly blinked. “Oh, I’m s—I mean, um, I never thought about that.” 

“Sally’s the one who should apologize.” Sherlock popped a candy heart that said _Call Me!_ into his mouth and ground it to chalky spit-dust. “Though she won’t. Which is perfect, because it gives me more moral ground to contemplate revenge. Do you think I could poison her by boxed chocolates?”

Molly shifted in her seat. “Er…”

“I agree, too cliché.” He pushed his tray back and started to stand. “I have to go.”

“Wait!” Tugging on his sleeve to keep him in place, Molly said, “I have something for you, Sherlock. From me.” Flushing slightly, she reached into her book bag and extracted a violet rose with a simple green bow around the stem. “Um, this probably isn’t your thing, but I just wanted to say thanks for everything you’ve been doing for me. It’s for friendship, not…anything else, you know.” She laughed awkwardly, still blushing. “Just in case you got the wrong idea when I said you were good-looking.”

Cautiously, Sherlock examined the rose. This was one of the ones that were being sold by the cheerleading squad.

“Molly, this is—” Unexpected. Maudlin. But rather…nice. It was his favorite color, after all. And the fact that Molly would brave interacting with the cheerleaders in order to acquire it… He shook his head and let the thought hang, simply saying, “Thank you. You didn’t have to.”

The girl had been nibbling her lower lip nervously, but now a smile spread across her face. “But I wanted to,” she answered gently. “And you’re welcome.” She nudged her elbow into his side. “That’s what friends do, right?”

Sherlock’s throat suddenly constricted. Molly thought they were friends? He didn’t have friends. He had acquaintances, colleagues, informants, allies, an aggravating brother, an equally (or maybe more) aggravating ex-foster brother, geographically distant parental figures, and, in Molly's case, a protege—but not friends. This was just another example of how badly she needed his help to understand the way the world worked.

Thanking her again, he slipped the rose into his own bag and left for fifth period.

This was where he found the third Valentine. Fifth period was Sherlock’s independent study chemistry lab, which he’d successfully proposed last year after he’d coasted through the most advanced chemistry course at the school. He’d taken over a science classroom that happened to be empty in the afternoon, and he met with the senior physical sciences faculty once a week to keep them abreast of his research and present the log of whatever school supplies he’d used. It worked out perfectly for all parties involved, as long as he refrained from creating noxious fumes.

When he entered his empty classroom today, however, he found an apple sitting on his typical lab table. Red Delicious. Picking it up and spinning it, he saw a message carved along the side.

I ♥ U

Odd. Red Delicious apples weren’t sold at the cafeteria, so it must have been brought from home. Also, the letters were so fine that they might have been carved by a scalpel. Considering that he was in a laboratory where such tools were readily available, Sherlock would have assumed that someone who’d had lab before lunch had simply been bored—except that the flesh of the apple beneath the carving hadn’t browned.

A number of the staff and other students knew of Sherlock’s independent study program, and anyone walking by this classroom after lunch could’ve looked in the window and seen him here. Given that, the logical conclusion was that this strange claim of affection had been left specifically for Sherlock. There was nothing in his surroundings to indicate that someone had been here right before he arrived, but the absence of data didn’t entail the absence of event.

But why would anyone do such a thing? For goodness’s sake, he hoped he hadn’t accidentally managed to ensnare some type of secret admirer.

That aside, there was another point of interest about the apple. The two sides of the heart had been carved separately from the bottom up, the right one first, then the left arching up to meet it. This method had allowed the heart to be tellingly symmetrical. Whoever had left the fruit was a planner, someone who used forethought to improve an idea’s execution.

Sherlock whirled toward the window to check if he was being watched.

He wasn’t. Sherlock tossed the apple in the trash.

***

The fourth and final Valentine came from an entirely unexpected source.

It started when Sherlock was sprawled across his four-poster on his stomach that evening, poking around on the internet and listening to Rachmaninoff through earbuds. Catching a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, he looked up and automatically began cataloguing details.

Grass clippings on shirt hem. Nick from shaving. Sriracha stain on upper left trouser leg. Shirt sleeves that had been folded twice. New watch. Bags under eyes.

Then the person cleared his throat and took a step forward, and it all coalesced into John.

Sherlock felt a brief flush of embarrassment that John was seeing his room when it was so messy. One day, he’d have a whole flat of his own so that he could keep his bedroom neat as a pin and leave his clutter everywhere else. Oh god, and he still had that collage of Moriarty on the wall... What kind of idea would John get from that?

John, however, didn’t seem interested in the surroundings. His eyes flickered across them once, then settled back on Sherlock’s own.

Sherlock pulled out his earbuds. 

“Okay,” John said in a soft voice, his arms spread at his sides. “I have a few things to say to you, Sherlock, so please don’t interrupt.”

John held up one finger. “First, you shouldn’t have read my notebook. That was not on. I know that boundaries aren’t really your thing, but you still shouldn’t have done it.”

His tone grew steely. “Second, I know that you know I’m not using your family to elevate my social status or whatever you’ve been implying. I do owe your parents and Mycroft a great deal, but I intend to pay them back and make my way on my own merits, whatever those might be. You know that about me, or else you’re bloody blind, and we're both aware that’s not true.”

“Third and finally, I’m trying to be mature here, so I’ll say that I’m sorry you didn’t like the way I portrayed you. And I am sorry that I didn’t ask your permission first. I realize now that it was a creepy thing to do." He ran a hand through his hair, looking unsure of himself for the first time in his speech. "I was going to tell you last weekend, but obviously that didn’t happen. So. I apologize.”

He exhaled harshly through his nostrils, and then he stood at parade rest, watching Sherlock’s face and waiting.

Sherlock cleared his throat past the lump that had formed there. “You could have said this by text,” he finally answered.

John’s smile was thin. “I hate texting.”

Sherlock licked his lips. “I know.”

John held out a hand.

Sherlock didn’t pretend to misunderstand. Ducking his head so that his curls fell into his eyes, he leaned down and pulled the brown notebook out from under his bed. He sat up and offered it wordlessly.

“Ta,” John grunted. Shifting his ratty backpack onto one hip, he zipped the notebook inside. As he looked up again, his eyebrows drew down. "Did you know you have glitter on your cheek?"

Sherlock had showered after school, but glitter, it turned out, was a menace to society. Scowling with embarrassment, he reached up and scrubbed at his face with one hand.

"No, I can—here." John took a step closer and brushed his thumb along the ridge of Sherlock's cheekbone, so lightly that Sherlock wasn't sure if he was making contact with the skin or just the tiny hairs that covered it. He didn't know why he wanted to close his eyes and lean in to the sensation.

Smirking slightly, John held up his thumb to show him the shiny gold flake caught on the pad.

“Got it." He cleared his throat and added, "You might not want it, but I left you some takeout in the fridge. Have a good night.” 

With that, he turned and padded away.

When Sherlock heard the front door open, he was struck by a wild urge. Dashing downstairs, he skidded into the foyer, yelling, “John!”

“Yeah?” John asked, twisting back in the open doorway. The sunlight caught his hair and turned it into a blazing halo of light.

Sherlock gave him his best shit-eating grin. “Happy Valentine’s Day!”

And oh, John’s expression at that was delightful.

Later, reading in bed, Sherlock was still chuckling about it when a buzz sounded from his nightstand. Frowning, he fumbled for his phone and swiped at the screen. And blinked. And blinked again.

_Sweet dreams, valentine. –JW_

Sherlock wasn’t flushed that night as he fell asleep. Definitely not.

***

_The feel of a body above him, all soft skin over hard muscles, Sherlock’s arms wrapped around its neck, his legs locked around its waist._

_The taste of quick, firm lips on his own, swallowing his whimpers and gasps before dipping down to devour his throat, his collarbone, his suprasternal notch._

_The sharp smell of male musk, salts in the sweat on skin._

_The feel of a deft, clever hand working its way into Sherlock's trousers._

_The sound of a voice in his ear growling, “You’re so beautiful, Sherlock, so bloody gorgeous...”_

_“Oh!” Sherlock gasped against thick blond hair. “Oh—god, don’t stop, Jo—”_

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open to see narrow stripes of white light between his closed blinds. He blinked hazily and shuddered.

Pulling his bottom sheet back over his head, he looked down at himself to see that he was fully erect, a smell wet spot from pre-come where his pajamas stretched over the tip of his penis.

He normally wouldn’t be inclined to do anything about it—but the dream... Oh god, he felt like he'd been on the brink of making some glorious deduction, or coming, or both. And dream Sherlock might have been a slag, but he would certainly have spread his legs and let that man fuck him into the mattress (or had it been a hammock?) if he'd stayed asleep any longer.

His lips were dry. His throat was parched. The fine hairs on his arms and legs were standing up. And he’d twisted onto his stomach and was thrusting into the mattress before he even thought about it, mouthing at his pillowcase, his eyes closing again, his right hand sneaking down between his legs to lift the heavy weight of his cock, circling it with his thumb and forefinger.

But it wasn’t enough.

There was a reason he didn’t usually do this. Aside from the fact that his one experience of anything remotely sexual with another person had been a disaster of Hindenburg proportions—and he was _not_ going to think about that right now—he was uncomfortable with this area of his body, all sharp hips and dark nest of curls. Also, he felt like the more often he surrendered to his cock’s needy and aggressive demands, the more demands it would make.

Sherlock cursed pathetically into his pillow, squeezing his eyes closed. He’d gone too far to stop now. Raising one palm to his lips and licking it, he resumed his ministrations. The wetness helped, but it still wasn’t enough. It just wasn’t. Sherlock scrunched his eyes tight, trying as hard as he could to focus, focus, focus—

His bare feet rubbed against each other, sheets hissing against his back and buttocks as he rolled his hips. Focus, focus—

He imagined that there was a warm body pressed along his back, another hot, soft-over-hard erection jutting against him, and—oh!—hands in his hair. Massaging his scalp and tugging his curls, gentle, but insistent. And Sherlock was a needy, whimpering mess, and a low voice (like a tenor that had just swallowed gravel) was right behind him, murmuring, “I’ve got you, sweetheart, you’re safe—” 

oh oh oh oh oh

Sherlock sobbed, pumped himself tightly into his hand, and came all over his sheets.

***

When the school week ended, Sherlock felt much calmer than he had when it began.

For one, John had apologized. John had gone out of his way to find Sherlock and apologize. Sherlock didn't quite know if he forgave John yet (or if John planned to continue writing about a detective with Sherlock's middle names), but John's apology had made him feel lighter, almost fizzy with relief. Emotions were strange.

Then there'd been his morning indiscretion. Seeing as he had probably reaped numerous hormonal benefits from active release, he quickly put the experience out of his mind. He’d felt boneless and sated (and sticky) afterwards, but the fact that he’d indulged in a wank while thinking of some nameless man that he’d met in a dream wasn’t exactly relevant to his daily life.

Mycroft finally came home on Friday, swollen with his typical self-importance and sneering at the accumulated dust and clutter in the house. He gave Sherlock the expected lecture, then barricaded himself in his office.

Ah, it was nice to resume the status quo.

On Saturday afternoon, Sherlock invited Molly over again. He was so engrossed in tutoring her that he didn’t notice it had grown dark outside until his ringtone sounded.

“Donovan?” he asked in surprise once he grabbed it. They typically had a no-weekends policy.

“So check it, Holmes,” Sally said without preamble on the other end. “I was walking by Moriarty’s locker after school yesterday, and guess what I saw?”

Locker. What would Moriarty want to put in his locker? More to the point, what would Donovan think that Sherlock would want to know that Moriarty put in his—

His eyes widened. “No.”

“Yes.” He could hear the smirk in her voice. “Glued in the middle of a big heart cut out of red construction paper.”

“What is it?” Molly demanded from across the coffee table, her hands still busily creasing a white linen napkin. They’d been watching a YouTube video on how to fold serviettes.

Sherlock lowered the phone slightly. “Jim’s got your picture in his locker!” he hissed.

“Hey! Earth to Sherlock!” Sally interrupted over the sudden sound of Molly’s squealing. “So anyway, the whole crew’s heading for Lestrade’s. You two down? Philip and I could pick you up.”

“Give us twenty,” Sherlock agreed. 

He thumbed the end call button and regarded the girl across from him, who was practically bouncing on her arse with excitement. “You’re about to get your wish, Molly,” he announced with gravity. “It looks like we’ll be making a cameo at the stoner party after all.”

And oof—perhaps he should have protected his eardrums before telling her that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


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